


Inverted Redemption II

by This_is_my_truth



Series: Inverted Redemption [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Despair, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Gay, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Past Relationship(s), Reunions, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 170,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21408727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_my_truth/pseuds/This_is_my_truth
Summary: John has left the gang to start a new life away from Arthur and his toxic love.  Will it be everything he needed or will he be left with an Arthur shaped hole that cannot be filled?  Will Arthur survive the torment of losing another lover long enough to see John thrive without him?
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Original Character(s)
Series: Inverted Redemption [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523504
Comments: 171
Kudos: 195





	1. The end of Us

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, this is going to be weekly delivery cycle as I now have a full time job to manage around my writing. Hope you enjoy the second instalment, comments welcome as always.

The wind roared like a bear awoken early from hibernation. The dying flora and fauna of summer too weak to remain anchored. Mother earth accepting the cruel departure of her children as they are ripped from her arms by the rampaging wind. Their corpses slammed and hit against him, determined to make him fall. The ornate topiary of the St-Denis suburbs carefully curated now bowed to its real master the natural world. 

The storm unwelcome, hit without warning, it was not as severe as the invisible knife repeatedly stabbing into his chest. A sword wielded by the man whose smile was akin to the grandeur of dawn breaking over still water, his eyes brighter than any star in the dark sky, his love molten, burning like the midsummer sun, his soul as large as the harvest moon. 

Arthur betrayed him, made their love a lie. Made his place in the gang untenable, forcing him to leave all he held dear, all he knew. The knife wounds tore his flesh, cutting deep into his being, but couldn’t cut the love out of him. He wanted Arthur so much he couldn’t breathe, every step away from the outlaw quelled the light that was his life. His heart could not beat without his sight, his lungs could not inhale without his scent, his mind could not focus without his voice. 

The rain, a thousand needles pricking at exposed skin swirled and thrashed. Forming the outline of Orion, the great celestial hunter, running along with the bear wind, it pursued John with ferocity. Stalking in brief moments of calm and striking again and again, dancing to the Gods whilst his mortal body felt crushing blows. With commanding force, the hunter pulled at its bow. An arrow quivered through the darkness. John collapsed; his frame crumpled on the cobbled stones.

The storm still raged around him, but all he could hear was the heavy and slow beat of his heart, his doe eyes darkening, they rolled with acceptance, the light dying. Arthur was the hunter, John his prey, this was their end, savage and real just like their start and every moment in between. At least it was his outlaw that was responsible for ending him.

“Mr Marston! Mr Marston” he couldn’t identify the shapes that called to him. Jezebel cried, wild with fear from the storm and her limp owner. Hands moved with purpose lifting his corpse-like mass, dragging him from the claws of the wind, saving him from the hunter that desired his pelt. The familiar crackle of fire consuming wood shook him momentarily from his delirium. Her warm face peered from a rocking chair where she and Rose sat quietly while he slept.

“I am dying Sister.” He choked.

“Whilst the wounding of a heart is intense Mr Marston, it does not lead to death.” She rocked gently, gazing upon Rose’s beautiful blue eyes, they blinked in confusion to the whole dramatic scene. She refused to even attempt to sleep when the wind howled around the rafters of the old rectory.

“How do you know my heart is wounded?” John asked petulantly, he detested how transparent he was to her.

“You went to get Arthur, he isn’t here. You said yourself many people have tried to save him from that life.” She lifted Rose up and placed her on the rug next to John. The young girl instantly curled into his side, like a kitten seeking comfort from its mother.

“I assume you argued, crossed words, he didn’t want to come?” She sought clarity on what had gotten him in such a mess.

“I didn’t give him the option.” He huffed, his gaze staring intensely into the flames dancing. Unable to acknowledge Rose fully, the girl pulled at his heartstrings, she made him chose between her and the man he always loved. Her innocence needed protecting it meant more than the corrupted love Arthur was willing to give. She didn’t even know of this choice, but he still couldn’t bear that gaze, not yet.

“Before I gave myself to the church, before I married my dead husband. I loved a woman dearly.” A creak echoed through the silence, the Sister rocking sincerely to the admission of her truth. John shot a glance; he’d heard of women being that way inclined but had never met one.

“You can see the truth in everyone’s eyes if you look hard enough, eyes are the window to the soul after all.” She caught his gaze. “Your eyes come alive when you talk about him, only passion provides that light.”

“You don’t find it disgusting?” John quivered.

“How can love be disgusting?” She gently rebuked

“It’s not love” John grumbled

“That’s the argument talking.” She said lightly, trying to dispel his angst.

“No, it’s the truth” he rattled. “I played my hand, and I lost. I was a fool for thinking I had a hand to play, I wasn’t even the only player at the table.” He sobbed. She took a moment, her face thoughtful and circumspect, love was hard enough fathom for someone so young, betrayal was even harder.

“Maybe not now, as the hurt is too real, but soon, you will come to realise that life is not a game of cards. People are fallible, and they make mistakes, sometimes repeatedly. We should always forgive those who hurt our hearts, by the sheer virtue that they were granted access in the first place, means they are special to us. The Special people in our hearts can be careless maybe, selfish, we can all be that from time to time, but truly they do not mean to cause pain. I am sure Arthur feels that pain, John.” John sniffed, her wisdom was suffocating, like Hosea that day fishing where he revealed his darkest secret only to be greeted with warmth, levity and understanding. That day he forgave Arthur, not that there was anything to forgive. The first kiss forever clouded by his own fear was now a bittersweet memory. His desires were real, taking three years to be unveiled like a virgin bride at the alter three weeks was all it took for reality to crash around them. 

Perhaps he was naïve for thinking that anything that pure could survive in a world as cruel as there’s. Arthur partook of the apple, tempted by the snake Dutch and now paradise was a distant memory consigned to the periphery of their minds. There now remained one pure thing in his life, Rose, who should not be responsible for her own redemption, having not sinned but was sinned against. At what point does God turn his back on the innocents deciding they are complacent in their own downfall.

John awoke to the now typical bustling sound of children playing in the yard. He retrieved a cup of warm coffee from the rectory kitchen and joined them, interested to see the extent of the storm damage from the night before.

“Just a few fallen trees and plenty of leaves, I am sure you will have it cleared up in no time Mr Marston.” The sister ushered him to sit with her on the porch steps.

“I am sure I will, then I can enquire about that job at the apothecary, can’t rely on your charity forever.” He took a sip of the hot coffee as his eyes scrolled over the shabby court-yard, it always stood out as run down next to the grand homes that surrounded it. The storm had been a leveller, making everything appear run down, disorientated, just how he felt. It was time to rebuild.


	2. What to do at the end

The seraphim’s glided, their curls falling against his skin felt like beautiful silk. The floor scattered with pink and white petals, the scent of myrrh pungent kept him on the blurred lines between this world and the next. He could see the gates opening if only he could believe they were for his arrival. His skin warm, radiant and glowing, he was alive and dead in the same breath. The world was his, he was the warrior, carrying the pain for them both. He was powerful, stoic, he was Arthur Morgan, after all, the weight always rested naturally on his shoulders.

The wrongs were held against his name, no time given for an explanation, what was there to explain. His warrior was momentarily defeated by the black and white innocence of his lover. A narrative built from years of study cut through and left him stumbling when he should have been fighting. He didn’t ask for every inch of skin, for the full beating heart, the last whimpering flicker of hope, his soul, but he was gifted all if it and without challenge or restraint he used it. Then in a moment of weakness, carelessly he placed it to one side. His lover, the one that could turn day into night, stop the world from spinning, upend every firmly held belief, was gone. John leaving, the reasoning rash, hasty, and heated were all the reasons for loving him in the first place.

Arthur empathised with the boy, aware of his insecurities, evident before any talk of romance ever formed. John would see himself on a long list of loves Arthur possessed that he couldn’t keep, that pain was a step too far for him to accept. John was more, will always be more, they were parallel lives. Mary, Eliza and Isaac, they walked alongside him for a little while, seeing the man he was supposed to be, ultimately disappointed. John was the only person to know the man he was, and now he was gone, also disappointed. What to do when neither side can provide the whole that is reasonably desired by those who proclaim love. In the haze of clarity, his doe eyes lingered in his thoughts, burning like an effigy. Even his wolfish glare was radiant and bittersweet, any look could have melted him from existence. He would give every drop of blood for one last taste of those lips.

Hoping was a fool’s game, he knew that. Instead, he found sweet release where he knew it to be, where he had left it all those years ago. His body yearned for sleep when It came his dreams were filled with that sharp maddening face, pouting with hurt and anger. It couldn’t go on, obsession, sleepless obsession, subconscious obsession always led to madness. Madness of the heart broke him before, a cliff edge could not be his end, not this time. John still lived, out there in the world, one day he may need him and one day he might be willing to be vital to him again.

“Get him up,” Dutch ordered, Sean and Javier picked the outlaw up, his limp bulk tricky to manoeuvre.

“You keep feeding him this poison, and I will come back and burn the place down.” Dutch pointed his authoritative finger at the small Chinese man.

“He is a paying customer, what am I supposed to do?” The man protested backing away slightly as the smouldering glare of Dutch set his skin on fire. They dragged Arthurs half-dazed carcass to the waiting wagon, Hosea sat atop holding the reigns.

“Is he alright?” His voice was calm but concerned.

“He will be fine.” Dutch shook his head in frustration as he joined Hosea. Arthur was led down on the back, Sean and Javier sat either side of him.

“How did you know he would be here?” Hosea cocked a suspicious eyebrow towards Dutch.

“I have my sources, now drive.” Hosea was reticent but suspected there were certain truths about Arthur that had been hidden from him. Both Arthur and John had always sought his counsel when they were struggling, this was something more than a regular falling out. A cataclysmic disaster that had Arthur seeking opium and John disappearing without a trace. Hosea ventured out a few times to find him until Dutch found out and raised holy hell.

“He left Hosea, just leave him to it.” The argument had gone. “If he wants to come back, he knows where to find us.”

“Will he be welcomed back?” Hosea challenged.

“Of course he will, he is my son, I would never abandon him.” The words were right, but something in his tone put Hosea on edge. They set off back to camp, a long and rickety ride. Boadicea loyally followed, Javier and Sean discussed whether one of them should ride her. The space in the back with Arthur was limited, they both thought against it. Arthurs horse didn’t seem the welcoming sort. They trundled on in silence until it became unbearable.

“What do you think they fought about?” Sean poked, wanting to see the reactions, while it was a sore point for the longer-serving members of the gang it was still salacious and needed to be gossiped about.

“Mr McGuire, if you value your place in this gang you will keep your mouth shut,” Dutch ordered.

“Come on, we are a family, how are we supposed to fix _this_ if we don’t know what _this_ is. Old Morgan ain’t going to spill, that journal of his is the only thing that knows what’s going on.” As soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes widened, he reached for Arthurs satchel. In a heartbeat, the cold blade of Javier’s hunting knife rested on his neck.

“In Mexico, families respect each other’s privacy.” His barbed words made Sean surrender.

“You know, don’t you!” Sean slapped his leg with excitement, not fearing the blade at his neck. Javier blushed, turning his face away to hide. Hosea pulled the wagon to one side, determined that the secrets they all held needed to be out in the open, for Arthur’s sake.

“Speak Javier, what do you know?” The leaders turned, poised to hear what had been going on.

“It is not that I know anything.” He began. “It’s just I have always seen something that you possibly haven’t because you are too close.” They all drew in closer, intrigued to hear this revelation.

“John” Javier paused for a moment, struggling to find the words. “John, doesn’t like woman, not as much as he likes men and certainly not as much as he loves Arthur.” Dutch’s face dropped, Hosea didn’t move, Sean laughed.

“John’s a prancing dandy! I don’t believe you” His Irish twang thick with humour. “If he liked men, he would be all over me, the fine specimen that I am, not this hunk of beef.” Sean kneed Arthur’s ribs eliciting a grunt and nothing more.

“John is not like that Javier; we would have noticed it by now if he was,” Dutch said confidently.

“Well,” Hosea interjected, finding it was he who had the secret. Dutch looked at him surprised and a little hurt.

“He came to me when he was younger, said he had certain urges.” Hosea waved his hands to dismiss Dutch’s ire.

“About Arthur?” Dutch screeched.

“Not about Arthur, just feelings about men in general,” Hosea said exacerbated.

“You didn’t think I should know.” His voice boomed.

“No, not at the time, if it ever became a problem, I would have told you. Not soon after John met Beth and I assumed it was a phase.” Hosea dipped his head slightly to hide from the glare.

“Is there anything else you are keeping from me that I should know?” Dutch growled, a sign his anger was abating. Hosea thought on it, like Javier he suspected John and Arthur were growing intimately acquainted with each other. Still, his loyalty was to his sons, it had to be, that and he was sure Dutch was not honest with him.

“Still doesn’t make any sense if John is that way inclined, why is Arthur in this state?” Dutch folded his arms.

“This is almost as bad as last time.” Dutch glared at Hosea; the two members of the gang sat in the back unaware of Arthur’s previous interlude into despair. “It’s not exactly the same.”

“It has never been how the loss occurred with Arthur; it is a sheer fact there is a loss. They were brothers Dutch, Arthur holds loyalty above everything, loyal to what matters he says. It hurts, he is hurting.” Hosea snapped the reigns of the wagon and continued in silence.

Dutch concealed the hot rage pulsing through his body. Loyal to what matters, Dutch was what mattered, all that ever mattered to Arthur. A pinched smirk crossed his face, if it did happen, it didn’t matter now, John was gone, and Arthur always came back in the end, back to what matters most.

  


  


  



	3. A new job

Had he made a mistake? He couldn’t decide, he was elated when Dr Joseph Barnes, previously known as the Doctor or Doc when treating Hosea, agreed to give him a trial. He was gravely wounded when he realised that he was working with his less affable and insular colleague Doctor Theodore Scott. The man was sour, distant, his attempt at wit lacked warmth or humour. He was stout, with an abundance of facial hair that was fading into the greyness of his twilight years.

Their first days together were tense, to say the least. John eager to please used his natural-born speed and nimbleness to try and complete every task efficiently. This was not pleasing to Dr Scott; _it is a tragedy of youth to have the flexibility and agility, but none of the cognisance or fortitude to wield them correctly. _He commented after John had stocked the shelves as asked but had placed the labels facing inwards rather than outwards. John scrunched his nose; he was uncertain of the meaning of most of the words in the sentence, but he was sure in summary, he was being called stupid.

Dr Scott’s efforts at training were nonsensical, focussing mainly on the complicated wording of the medicine rather than the actual ailments they were supposed to cure. He received a twenty-minute lecture on the origins of the word Laudanum, was it the Latin, _Laudare_, to praise. Or was it from the Persian, Ladan, a resinous juice or gum obtained from the citreous extract. John didn’t care much for the origin of the word just that the product itself seemed highly sort after by the socialites of St Denis.

They eventually found a routine with each other that neither seemed pleased about but were able to abide. John would do his work as told and receive his indoctrination into the world of obscure facts around medicine. Dr Scott would limit his disdain to a few tuts and sharp intakes of breath. It was only in his interactions with Dr Barnes, Joseph, that John could see the real underlying feebleness of Dr Scott. His vast knowledge built up over a lifetime of learning didn’t impress as much as the skills of the in-house physician. While both were incredibly intelligent, it was Joseph and not Theodore that was prized. It is one thing to have the knowledge, it is quite another to practicably apply it.

John may not know the fancy words or the origins of those words and medicines. Still, he could tell what they were from smell and sight, having helped Susan on multiple occasions pack and unpack the medicine wagon. When one of the gang returned injured, it was his job to help Susan in administering medicine. He knew Chloroform knocks the patient out, Whiskey is a good pain killer but thinned the blood too much when imbibed, instead used to clean a wound was preferable. Cocaine gum provided alertness and numbed oral aches, the list of his knowledge went on and on. One area he was sure of was the gang stayed away from Laudanum unless they were in real discomfort. What experience John gained from Dr Scott was that Laudanum, like many other medicines, were called Opioids, derived from Opium. It was through that revelation that John became enlightened. For all his well-healed education, Dr Scott was a distinguished but indistinguishable Opium peddler, no better than the den owners in the docks. For all his family’s faults, they understood the risks behind these drugs and limited their consumption. John felt shame that he once partook of Opium, disrespecting those who tried to protect him without even realising.

It was with these revelations that John began to understand his mentor better. Having spent his limited years living in the shadow of Arthur, it is always hard to prove an aptitude when stood next to someone who was naturally talented. To dedicate your life to curing pain and alleviating illness to find that most of your patients use you to get their fix. It is too above them to go down to the docks like everyone else and smoke it from a pipe. Dr Scott was not a bad man; he was just broken, and John could relate to that feeling.

It was during one of their busier mornings that John could see the withered face of Theodore crack. A customer irate at the traffic in St Denis, causing him to be late for a previous appointment meant he was running behind to pick up his Laudanum. John was unsure how the chaotic life of an addict was either his or Theodore’s fault, but the customer complained none the less. John dealt with the uncouth customer, ushering Theodore into the back room. He prepared their afternoon tea break, always the same, 2:30 pm a cup of Souchong with two dry biscuits.

“I have been thinking,” John said, having dealt with the irate customer.

“I was wondering why I felt so uneasy.” He smirked through his exhaustion.

“Ha, wittier men than you have mocked my thinking. I am immune to it now.” He said placidly as he took a sip of his brew. Theodore blushed slightly and being called out for his lack of humour; he had grown to tolerate the boy enough to see he was not all that bad.

“My horse Jezebel is used to long rolling country-side, being cooped up in the city isn’t improving her temperament. By the time I finish here, the last thing I want is to ride her.” John took another sip.

“What if I could do my work and ride Jezebel at the same time?” Theodore cocked a brow, imagining John and his horse haphazardly negotiating the shop floor.

“A delivery service, we could go to our customers who are too ill to come to us. Our more discerning customers with their itchy skin don’t have to travel across town to bark at us.” John placed his half-empty cup on the side, the bitter taste never suited. He went back to work, allowing the idea to ruminate through the older man’s head.

“I was wrong, thinking suits you, Mr Marston,” Theodore called from the back room. John smiled at the compliment.

The delivery service took a few weeks to really catch on. Still, like all good ideas, once it had, it was the talk of the town. Requests were limited to those with the most need and secretly those who Theodore detested the most. Jezebel was happy, roaming St-Denis might not have been the same to a rolling field, but it was better than the rickety shed at the church. Free from Theodore, John got space to do what he was becoming an expert in, thinking.

John enjoyed the freedom, his customers, the ill, elderly and infirm were mostly welcoming of his arrival. Some could be snippy, some outrageously snobby but most were good-willed. As the day drew on this distance between stops became wider this gave him time with his thoughts or thought of one person scarred on his mind. The spectre of his former lover stalked behind every shadow, every corner, close enough to make the hairs on his neck stand up, too far away to feel his touch. He willed it to end, understood it took time for feelings to die. He became controlled, determined that every day he would lose a little part of Arthur. Until all that remained was a muted memory of someone, he once knew but had long forgotten. How he longed for that day, wished it to be sooner than was possible.

Some days he focused on the nothingness, allowed the void to be filled with something else. Rose was a good bet even Theodore and the Sister, how they were growing into dear friends, filling the vacant space left by the gang. Other days he would relive the hurt, the moment of ultimate betrayal, those words written in his journal recited like a poem of love lost. Sometimes John would think of his future, where life would take him in two years, five years, ten years. The future was never much to consider when he lived as an outlaw, it was frowned upon to think a few days ahead, let alone years. All these tactics worked for a short time, that and the customers filled most hours of his day.

It worked well, in his own opinion, until one faithful day six months later. He managed the whole day without a single thought towards the outlaw, exhausted from a busy day he collapsed into a deep and unyielding sleep. He dreamed, the type of dream that comes from overtiredness, his rational brain completely switched off, allowing his rampant subconscious to take over. The familiar crush of his weight woke him, his two-tone tanned body naked lying atop of him, stealing the breath from his lungs. He shuffled, attempting to free himself from the bulk. The movement woke the older man, he turned to find his young lover rasping with sleep. John frozen, feigning sleep, scared that an argument was all they had left in them. The burning sensation of Arthur’s lips planting kisses down his back, the odd lick followed by a heated breath made his skin tingling. Arthur didn’t hide his arousal, pushing his thick manhood against John’s body each time it made contact. A quivered breath of stimulation left John’s lips, if he were still asleep, he would soon be awake. Arthur’s lips reached the dip of John’s slender back, he separated his round plump cheeks and licked along the crack of his ass. John’s head rose from his pillow, unsure what just happened. Arthur smirked malevolently, biting each cheek before pulling them apart again and pulsing his tongue on his rim.

John groaned with pleasure, this sensation was new and unexpected, making him hard. John shuffled uncomfortable with this further intrusion to his being, but he couldn’t dare himself to ask it to stop. Too aroused to allow any of the hurt to stop him. Arthur used his tongue to penetrate his hole, John buried his head in the pillow, grasping the side of the bed his knuckles white. His mind somersaulted through his limited vocabulary to try and find the words that best described what he was feeling. John was left wanting, always the same with new experiences, stone dead and gawping. He wanted it to stop. Wanted it to never end. Wanted to know why he never knew this act existed. Wanted to go back to the innocent time five minutes before where this was not part of his world. Arthur didn’t stop with his mouth, soon his hands and then his cock was making sweet love to his needy body. He moved like water, his fluid motion sweeping over every inch of his body. His aroma was thick and woody, steamy from his exertions, he was everywhere and nowhere. Like electricity, it had to be there for the lights to be on but try to see if you would be left wanting. Wanting, that was his only thought, wanting that sensation, wanting to be desired, wanting that stretch he provided so willingly and passionately. He yearned for Arthur, the single man who could take his opaque desires and bring them to life, did his cowboy still want him? His body contorted in the final throws, Arthur’s ruthless and relentless penetration so full and real. There was no question he was back, he sought John out, found him, submitted to him instantly. The only words from his mouth, you want this, don’t you, boy? Over and over. You want this, don’t you, boy? Those words scared, punctuating every moment.

“Yes, Arthur, I want it!” he yelled as he woke, his sheets damp with sweat and semen. With that, six months of hard work was written off. He spent so much time pushing the thoughts away, wishing them to die, that when the damn broke, he was consumed. The loneliness was gone filling the void once again with the shape of Arthur, naked Arthur, constantly rampant, always erect. Now he rushed, eager to deal with his customers so he could get back on the road, back to thinking of acts they could do to each other. His mind still young and inexperienced thought on the most perverse things, erotic and taboo, sometimes downright filthy. Even John was unsure he would ever feel confident to ask for some of them and was certainly unsure Arthur would provide them. Here on the streets of St Denis, John built himself a little unrestricted world that no one could see, where he and Arthur could truly explore every inch of each other.


	4. Returning Home

He coughed sand at the arid desert that filled his mouth, inhaled an uncomfortable and unpleasant breath. A vivid oasis lay before him, a mirage his addled mind conjured, finding itself incapable of making his frame move. The sickness in his stomach, the residue of opium sitting uncomfortably as it stretched out across his wretched and crippled muscles. What he would give not to be here, not to feel. All thoughts of John quelled into insignificance from this sickness.

In the darkness, he reached out, surprised as his hand clasped and then dropped something familiar. He was home. The object, the picture of his dear mother, the oval frame, unadorned, was one of the few objects he held dear. Concealed behind, his son Isaac, what would he have made of the state his father found himself in.

He fell from his cot, displacing the rest of his meagre processions from his table as his bulk, uncoordinated, hit the legs. A groan of discomfort left his swollen lips. It was uncomfortable but preferable, in this state, he was single-minded. His being always leaning towards self-preservation could only focus on one thing, water. He struggled to satisfy that need, not too hard, while it was his singular desire none of the pain or hurt could work its way in. Ask him to name his lover, and he would give the answer water, there was no room for John and indeed no place for Dutch, water was his sole desire.

“Oh, Arthur, what have you done?” Mary-Beth's shrill voice was unwelcome, as she collapsed next to his crumpled frame, trying to help him up. Her question, simple and complex, what have I done? I fell out of bed. What have I done? Taken opium, what have I done? Broke my own heart, again, what have I done? I lost John.

“Water" he croaked, she nodded and swiftly went to retrieve some fresh from the butts dotted around camp.

In the darkness, his mind aware of the impending satisfaction of its thirst being quenched began to unravel. A flash of an image, those wolf eyes staring as his body submitting to Dutch. How much had he seen; he didn’t say? How much had he heard; he didn’t ask? If he bore witness to it all perhaps a crumb of scrutiny would have played out if he was inquisitive, intrigued, why didn’t he care what it meant. If he was bothered enough to scratch the surface, he could have seen the truth concealed so tightly, the abuse that for years had been his world. The damage he sustained to keep them all safe. Why didn’t he see the sacrifice he made to keep his little brother safe? The shock of cold water woke him from his haze.

“Come on get up.” Susan Grimshaw cast a long shadow across the doorway of his tent. He was groggy and confused, finding a cup of water resting next to his head. He must have passed out before Mary-Beth returned.

“Leave me alone.” He grumbled, not even her stern pragmatism could get him to move.

“We are moving, so you can move with us or stay here.” His head collapsed back; he closed his eyes, hoping the woman would leave. Her words took several cycles before it began to seep into his conscious.

“We can’t go!” He growled. He crawled across the ground of his tent before scrambling to his weak legs, stumbling into the communal area like a new-born foal. He was greeted by the full force of his family packing up camp.

“Hosea!” He croaked the older man carrying a box to the wagon. “We can’t go.” Hosea stopped, the sight of his son, pathetic and needy, was too much to ignore. “Hosea, we can’t go.”

“It is for the best son.” He placed the box on the floor. “We need to get you as far away from St Denis and that poison you have been smoking.” Arthur frowned, his slow-witted cogs catching up, they knew, they all knew what he had been doing to himself, but how?

“Dutch knew where to find you,” Hosea answered before the question was asked. His telepathy in certain matters was astute, a face he could read, secrets kept well hidden, even from the people that held them and he was just as blind as the next man.

“What if he comes back and we are not here, he won't know where to find us.” Arthur protested.

“Better to lose one son through choice than lose both through ignorance.” Hosea placed a calming hand on his broad shoulder. “John chose to go if he wants to come back, he will have to find us. There is a letter for him in Rhodes. You, on the other hand, you cannot stay, not here while the memories are still raw.”

“I can be better, I promise, just give him more time. You know John, he changes his mind like the wind.” Arthur stifled a sob unsure who he was trying to convince, John was stubborn on certain things, and this would be one of them.

“Get your stuff packed Arthur, we are going,” Hosea instructed. He returned to his cot, throwing himself on it like a petulant child having a tantrum, anything was preferable to releasing the tears that sat stinging in his eyes.

“Arthur?” Dutch called to him in his usual quizzical tone. An approach that served him well when trying to deny knowledge of the younger man's torment.

“Come on, son, your holding everyone up.” He entered without being asked, these words then first spoken since that night.

“Should have left me to die, Dutch.” He said, his tone cold towards the man.

“Don’t say that my boy, we love you.” Dutch’s bejewelled hand landed on his knee, he immediately flinched from the closeness.

“Funny way of showing it.” He scolded.

“Now, Arthur, I know you are hurting, but I can’t see how this is my fault.” He said lightly.

“If we hadn’t done that damned train robbery, none of this would have happened.” He spat venom at his former lover.

“Jobs go wrong all the time...” he pleaded but was interrupted by the youngers sharp tongue.

“Mostly the ones you come up with.” Arthur curled up into a ball, the sickness rising once again.

“You sure you’re not sour for another reason?” Dutch eyebrow lifted.

“Like what?” He grumbled, even in this state he controlled his territory like a prowling tiger never giving anything away.

“John leaving is a good thing, you will see that eventually, brothers aren’t meant to love brothers,” Dutch said bluntly.

“Like fathers aren’t supposed to love sons.” The younger challenged, sending the older spiralling it a fit of rage.

“Keep your voice down, do you want the whole camp to hear you?” He whispered, his hand working its way around Arthur’s neck. His ocean blue eyes turned grey, there was the Dutch he knew intimately.

“What does it matter anymore, Dutch? Why you so intent on keeping it so secret?” He pushed, wanting to rise the man's ire, see where the violence would take him this time.

“Because it is unnatural Arthur, it’s not right.” He pushed his body away, not willing to engage in this game that had been theirs for so long.

“John didn’t think it was unnatural, he knew what he was and decided he was better off without us. We are unnatural ones, you and I, always hiding, John is the most natural thing walking on two legs.” Arthur felt a beam of pride as he said it. John was better than either of them, he deserved to build a good life for himself, with a man that loved him as much as Arthur did. Dutch sneered, he always suspected John to be that way, he was not as overt as Arthur had been, either that or Dutch hadn’t cared enough to find out. But the signs were there, he remembered the night he warned John to stay away from Arthur, unsure if was on the right track, clearly, he was.

“Well good luck to him, next time he frequents St-Denis docks he can get himself out of trouble because you won't be there to protect him.” Dutch's tongue full of spite, intentionally prodding Arthur where he knew it hurt, protecting John was all he ever promised to do.


	5. Orchid Ranch

“Here is your list for today, there is a new one, a Ranchers wife has taken ill, it’s a bit out of town so suggest you leave it to last.” John read the cursive scrawl, very similar to how Arthur used to write.

_Orchid Ranch, North St-Denis._

John finished packing his saddlebags, each containing a fabric compartment that allowed a bottle wrapped with a note advising dosage, patient and cost. Creating a system packing based on the order of delivery, the closest served first and winding out throughout the city. He was enthusiastic about the new delivery service, Theodore was less of a torment in small doses, like the medicine he proffered liberal consumption was undoubtedly preferable. He still returned for afternoon tea, detesting the liquid. It felt right to keep some of their traditions alive as they delivered a glimpse of the future to St-Denis.

The thoughts of Arthur licking his most intimate area intensified, it was now his favourite act he never tried. That and trying something that Arthur encouraged but they never got around to. His objectification of Arthur kept the pain from the door until the what if’s seeped in. What if John had given Arthur what he wanted that day in the cabin, fucked him like he asked, rather than getting wrapped up in his trauma. Arthur always called him selfish, was he selfish that day? still taking from his cowboy and never giving anything back? If he’d made love to Arthur would the itch have been scratched sufficiently that he wouldn’t have found solace in Dutch’s arms? That single thought, not found in isolation but clear as day was the first step to a place that John could class as forgiveness. Not forgetting, not returning but certainly understanding why.

He turned the corner to Orchid Ranch to be greeted by chaos. A tall man with a full belly and a large white hat was shouting to a younger man. The younger man wore a well-pressed shirt and unworn jeans. With natural olive skin, kissed by the sun, his dark brown hair almost black, curled with flecks of mahogany red which captured the sunlight at the right angles. John released the breath he was holding. The young man was struggling with an unwieldy bull, the older man shouting at him with rather unhelpful directions. The beast being pulled forward, dug his hooves in hard not moving an inch. It snorted with rage and the manhandling, scraping its left foot across the dirt getting ready to charge. John’s instincts took over, he jumped from Jezebel walking with purpose to the younger man. He grabbed the rope with him, the bull inched forward and then charged. John’s cat-like reactions pushed the boy out of the way of the charging bull, they lost their footing from the force. John landing atop of him, pulling their extremities in as the beast attempted to gorge them.

In the billowing dust, he could see the chiselled jaw, dimpled cheeks and green eyes, the boy was bewitching, and John mesmerised by his beauty. An eternity of thoughts passed by in a matter of seconds as the crashing realisation that he had pinned this young man to the ground and the bull was still rampaging freely. He jumped up, unsheathed his rope from his belt, lassoing the beast in one attempt. He began to pull tight. The young man joined him, grabbing the line, his hands clasping around John’s, they were soft, not working hands, too sensual. He pushed the heat from his blood, and they began to pull in unison, John directing with his gravely authoritative voice. The bull didn’t relent, not willing to give up his newfound freedom. Eventually, the large man who had been barking at them like a rabid dog finally joined in, grabbing the rope behind them. They began to pull; each heave John detected the sculpted muscles of the young man’s chest. Heat again, not appropriate. A battle of wills insured, appearing to take an age, the click of the gate confirmed the confinement of the bull.

“Thank you, son” the older man held out a hand.

“John Marston,” he said, accepting the hand, offering his name without being asked because he was no one’s son, he was his own man.

“Edwin Anderson, this here is my son Giorgio.” John nodded to the sullen-looking man. Even his name was attractive, Giorgio Anderson, it sounded exotic, more than John, certainly more than Edwin. He was of mixed stock, as Hosea used to call it. His father a rotund and pale northern European man, thankfully he must have taken after his mother who blessed him with southern skin and dimpled cheeks.

“Well, Mr Marston, I am not sure what brought you to my property, but I am grateful.” John blinked, as his exhausted mind caught up with itself.

“I am from the apothecary, I have medicine.” He returned to Jezebel who remained sturdy throughout the incident, her temperament enjoying the fiasco of these stupid humans trying to corral the poor bull. He pulled the last bottle from the saddlebags and read the note to the man.

“Two drops, three times a day, preferably with food.” John passed the bottle over. “Payment of $10 can be made today or added to your account.” The man studied the bottle, it was small considering the cost. John had not seen this bottle before and wondered what the ailment was.

“Giorgio, get Mr Marston here $10, I will give this to your mother.” The young man rolled his eyes, indignant to his father’s request.

“Now Mr Marston, you must join us for dinner as a thank you.” Edwin slapped his back, without any further discussion, his bulk pushed him to the grand ranch house that sat in the centre of the plot.

John hovered awkwardly in the hallway, his eyes drawn to ornate furniture that was well presented, a woman’s eye clearly decorated the place. It reminded him of some of the grander houses of St Denis rather than a working ranch house. Was this wealth fallen, a woman betrothed to a man of lesser standing or was this new money reaching above its station. John grinned at the thought, why on earth did he care, the snobbery of high society slowly reaching into his philosophy and finding a nonplussed engagement.

“Something amusing _John Marston_?” Giorgio appeared from a side room, handing John $10.

“Just enjoying your home, _Giorgio Anderson_.” John flashed back; the young man’s tone was too accusatory for his liking.

“Don’t enjoy it too much John, the likes of you do not belong here,” John smirked again, the rudeness of the boy a sign of his perceived breeding.

“Do you welcome all your guests with such warmth?” John challenged, not willing to allow this lady in waiting to have the upper hand. His scowl was stimulating, John vowed that he would make him scowl at every opportunity. A brass gong summoned them to dinner, breaking their escalation of insults.

“Mr Marston, please have a seat, it is usually my wife’s, but she is too ill to join us,” Edwin said.

“I am sorry to hear that sir, hope it is nothing too serious?” John was overly courteous, having learnt the craft of wooing wealth from Hosea. This time he was not looking to steal from them. He was undoubtedly still battling with the rude and judgemental Giorgio to convince him otherwise.

“Don’t see how it is any of your business.” Giorgio’s sour tone hung in the air.

“Giorgio!” his father reprimanded. “I am sorry Mr Marston, Giorgio has a privileged life, I have spoilt him as my only son. He chooses to reward me with a manner unbecoming of his standing.” Giorgio scowled; his dimples tight on his cheeks; John grinned. They were served a dinner of beef, potatoes and gravy. It was a hearty meal he was grateful for. While camp stew could be watery at times, the food at the church contained paltry amounts of meat or grain, it was mainly flavoured water.

Giorgio sat in silence as his father laid praise on the young John, trying to identify how such a skilled young man came to be a shop boy. John revealed his story, wrapping his truths around lies while omitting his time in the gang. His father was a Ranch hand taught him everything he knew, a lie. His father died, a fact. He wandered for a bit, a truth, just not on his own. Before being taken in by the church, his new reality.

“You are a bit old for the care of the church,” Edwin observed.

“The sister took a shine, I was quite emaciated, not sure if she thought I was younger.” John took a mouthful and could see the cogs of the Rancher grinding a thought. “They like having an older boy around, I can wear the younger ones out when I am not working.” Edwin smiled, finally relenting to the tale he was being told.

“Quiet, well eat up boy, you can have seconds, a skilled individual such as yourself should not be emaciated.” John was warmed by the gesture. Giorgio appeared incensed by the generosity of his father towards the shady character of John. A gentle twinkle of a bell called out, Edwin wiped his chops and excused himself from the table. John nodded and continued to eat, aware of the intense emerald eyes focussed on him boring a hole into his soul. John allowed it for a few moments and then met the stare with his wolfish glare. Giorgio’s pupils dilated; his shallow green eyes made it easier to see. John’s breath hitched slightly as he realised the acrimony towards him was not born out of a good upbringing gone wrong. It was something more profound, a knowing, recognising a shared affliction. Giorgio’s ruddy cheeks turned a magnificent red, intensifying those gorgeous dimples.

“You shouldn’t scowl, it makes you look ugly,” Giorgio said. John was taken aback by the comment, so readily given where no offer for scrutiny had been made, his looks having never been appraised in such a way. “You should scowl more often; it makes you look….” John stopped himself, shocked by his own brazenness toward this petulant boy and scared at the only word he could think of was fuckable. Gorgio eyes were wild, filling in the missing words himself.

John bit his lip, _how would he approach this? Would he approach this, or would he run away?_ John was not a coward in his professional life, but in matters of the heart, cowardice was his natural setting. He almost killed him and Arthur rather than revealing the truth of his affliction. Arthur led him into their relationship, he still couldn’t speak honestly on the night they first touched each other. Arthur offering himself up as a replacement for Beth, not realising he was all John wanted. And poor Beth, she identified it because her experience could see it written all over his face or his flaccid cock. _How can a truth stitched into every inch of his being be so hard to speak of?_ Never quiet he was mute when it came to his desires. He needed to be touched he knew that much, his daydreaming about Arthur becoming more and more intense, consuming more of his thoughts. Until that moment he thought his fantasies were born from obsession, missing Arthur. Now it was dawning on him that it was touch, sensation, warm skin that he missed. At this moment there was no skin warmer than the sun-kissed Giorgio who sat across the table from him.

He was conflicted then he remembered the kind words that Arthur had spoken of Beth. _She was unique, not sure you will find that again_. That night he almost died in the opium den, his stupidity almost getting him raped. He could not find himself in that position again, so touch starved that all sense left him. That and his cowboy wasn’t there to save him. He committed, moving his boot forward, finding the tip of Giorgio’s. _Why were their boots on? Why not take the dirty things off at the door?_ If the woman of the house were here, she would not allow such muddy footwear at her dinner table. They would have socks on, the fabric would allow a more significant touch, a more intense sensation. It would let him know if Giorgio reciprocated or if he was aware of what John was trying to achieve. _Give me a sign_ he called out in his mind. _Give me a sign and let me know I am right or wrong._

Giorgio’s leather cut boot moved up his calf, slowly, sensually, the hairs of his neck stood on end. He moved his other leg trapping the boot between his calves. Almost wanting a second opinion on whether this was happening. Giorgio read it differently and began to slide his foot back and forth, it barely registered to start with, but the pace increased, like the act itself. John coughed, shuffled, his pants becoming tight, uncomfortable from the stimulation.

“Right boys, I think a nightcap is needed.” The booming voice of Edwin startled their intimate moment. Giorgio almost falling from his chair.

“What is wrong with you boy, imbibed already.” Edwin’s tone was jovial. John could see the intense blush wash over those dimpled cheeks. His own stomach turned, this was too risky, he was impure, corrupting this boy with his sickness, he was betraying Arthur, the only man he loved. He was not an invert.

“I am sorry, sir; I should be getting back they will worry.” John rose quickly from his seat, tipping his hat and heading for the door. The Rancher was perplexed by this about-turn but had not time to question.

“Well see Mr Marston out Giorgio, where are your manners” Giorgio made a strangled noise of annoyance but followed his fathers’ instructions. John was already through the door and unhitching Jezebel before he made it outside.

“Don’t come back, John, you will not be welcome here,” Giorgio said brutally, a threat. It was not something he was expecting and certainly not something he could honour; he had a job to do. John smirked, knowing he was resting under the young man’s skin, exactly where he wanted to be.


	6. One Night in Blackwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who love this story are going to hate this chapter, I am sorry, we have to delve into the depths before we can come back up for air :)

Denied the numbness delivered expertly by opium, revoked the freedom to abuse himself with substances that alleviated his sorrow, Arthur brooded for the taste of mindless violence. Seeking it where he could. In this brutal age of the outlaw, of frontier justice and loose morality, there was a bounty of willing participants. His face became a masterpiece of bruises, welt and cuts, the swelling didn’t detract from his beauty, he was still handsome. His ocean blue eyes full of grief were searching, his mind ticked through every decision, in solitude. Arthur Morgan, in his silence, remote from all he cared for, spoke volumes. The soft outlaw, whose love was suffocating, was in there somewhere, screaming to breathe again if only oxygen were available. If John returned, the blood could pump around his body, reviving his heart and filling his lungs. He could live.

Instead, he fought. His sparring partners, anyone who would take up the challenge. His cutting wit delivered with his seductive drawl was a potent cocktail to incite fury in the sanest person. Prodding and poking enough to secure the reaction he desired. Most became his victims. His aggression such that stopping was not an option, even when reason dictated he should, beating the life from them well after they lost consciousness. He would be dragged away kicking, growling at the crowds of men who would gather to see two men fight. Instead, they witnessed the unpalatable mauling of a man by a monster. Their nearest and dearest sobbing at the unrecognisable pulp that was once their loved one’s face.

One evening in the saloon in Blackwater, the nearest town to where the gang were hauled up, Arthur found what he was searching for. Sylas Jones was a bald mountain of a man; he was adorned with tribal tattoos suggesting time spent in the Navy out on the Islands. This assumption confirmed by his obscene consumption of rum. The patrons in hushed whispers and grumbled comments confirmed what Arthur suspected, any rational person would give Sylas a wide berth, the man relished a fight.

Arthur observed Sylas; his black eyes saturated with wickedness. Only men who danced with the devil stared with the intensity that Sylas now fixated on the aloof and slightly drunk Arthur.

“Whatcha looking at fella?” Arthur drawled across the saloon. An astonished quiet befell the patrons, Sylas was not used to be questioned in such a tone. He was not used to anyone engaging him in any sort of conversation. If he wished to converse, he would do the talking, those involved would deliver monosyllabic responses and retreat fearing for their lives.

“A man who doesn’t know his place.” Sylas bellowed, rising from his stool, it clattered on the stone floor, making the stunned patrons jump through their skins.

“My place is at this here bar, fella. Maybe it is you who doesn’t know his place.” Arthur sniggered, knocking back a shot of whiskey, loosening his limbs ready for impact as Sylas speared him with the full force of his thick body. Arthur didn’t have even time to place his glass on the bar. The first punch is always the worst, his fist landing on the bridge of Arthur’s nose. Blood gushed instantly, his battlefield features massacred, he grinned maniacally, revealing his bloodstained teeth. The sight turning the crazed man on as he began to swing with abandon. Each hit landing on bone, his cheek, his chin. He roared when his nose was hit for a second time, it wasn’t enough. The beast’s eyes turned white with rage. Arthur hunted all over for a man like Sylas whose thirst for blood matched Arthur’s willingness to bleed. It wasn’t enough. He headbutted Sylas, it barely registered, just angered him more. He seized Arthur’s head, pulling it up and smacking it back with force onto the wooden saloon floor. His sight blurred; Sylas became a blur.

“I suggest you get off him if you know what is good for you.” Dutch stood over the pair of them, the click of his cocked gun resting against Sylas’ temple made time standstill. The ferocious beast of a man thought for a second, considering whether he could tackle Dutch before the bullet quit the gun. He rose in one swift movement from the unconscious torso of Arthur, spitting at him in disgust before picking up his stool and returning to his rum.

Dutch made sure Sylas was back in his cage before bending down and deadlifting the dense weight of Arthur onto his shoulder, he was getting too old for this. He nodded to the bartender who reluctantly threw a set of keys.

“First door on your left.” He said, nodding in the direction. The hush whispers of the patrons became louder as they left the bar and entered a small room to the side. It contained a bed and some bathing water, all Dutch needed to clean Arthur up. He lowered his wayward son to the floor, took the bowl of bathing water and tipped it over his head.

“What the hell…” Arthur yelled as the water immersed his face.

“What the hell indeed, what has gotten into you son? Fighting a man like that.” Dutch scowled.

“It was a good fight, I almost had him, you should have seen it Dutch.” He slurred his words, the alcohol and assault leaving him light-headed

“You are drunk!” Dutch rebuked.

“How observant of you could be an excellent poker player with those skills.” He chortled; Dutch was notoriously bad at Poker. Arthur rolled to his side to try and get some sleep.

“No, you don’t, I don’t know what has got into you lately, but you are not sleeping until we get to the bottom of this craziness.” Dutch pulled him up, slapping his face to ensure he had his full attention. The slap was enough, his eyes were wild, reliving the first time Dutch hit him, the time he declared his love only to be rejected most viciously. Arthur innocently falling for the older man, the only person to give him the attention he craved. His declaration to tell Annabelle everything resulted in a slap. It ended with a full-on assault that left him battered and bruised obtaining a memento on his chin. Sylas had nothing on Dutch that day.

“Getting your head staved in by the local psycho isn’t going to bring John back.” Dutch cooed pulling a chair up so he could sit above the beaten Arthur and monitor his reactions.

“Don’t say his name!” Arthur growled.

“He was my son; you don’t have a monopoly on missing him.” He said. Arthur rolled his eyes, the set grey and glared at the older man.

“It’s only us here, you don’t have to pretend.” Arthur raised himself onto his elbows, using his messed shirt to wipe away the wet blood from his face. “You didn’t care about John, you just kept him around so I wouldn’t leave.”

“That maybe Arthur, that maybe, but now he is gone I don’t expect any of this nonsense to continue. The gang needs you, Arthur, I need you.” Dutch pointed his finger which incensed Arthur

“You need me!” He said, jumping up from the floor, he was groggy but still strong, he pulled Dutch from his chair and slammed him into the wall. “You need me to run around like an obedient puppy, waiting for the scraps from your table, begging for more when you kick me because I crave the attention so much.” Arthur was disgusted by the truth in his words, he was a man in everyone’s eyes, except his own and Dutch’s. They knew the truth, both saw the lost, lonely little boy that Arthur truly was, begging to be loved unconditionally as he was. The only love he received always came with conditions.

“Arthur, I don’t know what has gotten into your head lately, this doubt you have towards me, have I ever steered us wrong.” Dutch protested, squinting slightly expecting a fist to land. Instead, Arthur placed his free hand around this thick neck of Dutch

“You raped me Dutch.” He spat into the older man’s face; his grip tightening around his leader’s throat. “You took my loyalty, my obedience, my need to please you and you twisted it until it broke,” Arthur released him allowing him to drop to floor and gasp for air.

“I don’t know how many times I have to apologise; I wasn’t in my right mind…Annabelle.” Dutch rested against the door, trying to regain the rhythm of his breath. “It was years ago, Arthur; I don’t know why you don’t let sleeping dogs lie.”

“For me it was yesterday, it never goes away.” Arthur collapsed on the bed. “Every time I close my eyes, I am back there on that day.”

“But we have been together since then Arthur, several times, you always come back.” Dutch protested.

“Just to see the look in your eyes, to see that pathetic glint of guilt that only shows when you are fucking me.” Arthur huffed. Dutch grimaced at the thought, their relationship had never been the same since that night. Both were expert liars, hiding the truth even from each other.

“I am guilty Arthur; I will never stop feeling guilty about that day. But you need to learn to forgive people make mistakes.” Dutch clambered to his feet, trying to steady himself in case there was a further attack.

“Do you remember what you said to me on the cliff edge?” Arthur’s drawl was thick with emotion, he wasn’t in a position to fight anymore. His anger abating and allowing his vulnerability to shine through.

“Arthur, don’t bring that up.” Dutch unwilling to relive the moment.

“Tell me what you said Dutch,” Arthur growled.

“If you jumped then I couldn’t promise John wouldn’t be your replacement,” Dutch admitted.

“What repulsive specimen of a man threatens to hurt a boy, a boy who’d already known such pain.” A tear descended his cheek. John was always worth protecting. Dutch’s blood boiled, John still had his tears over everyone else. Arthur never showed any emotion towards Dutch, towards his hardships. However, John, he got everything, and even after he threw it all away, he still got Arthur’s tears

“You’re a fine one to talk, you don’t think we all know what you and John have been up to. I stop the gossiping from getting back to you. Still, I am not the only repulsive specimen, taking advantage of the poor boy.” Arthur lurched from the bed and tackled Dutch to the ground.

“That’s my boy, that’s my Arthur.” Dutch sneered, the fist of Arthur pulled back and ready to land. “Hit me Arthur if that makes you feel better, just remember I am all you have left, you can blame me for everything, but at the end of the day I own you Arthur, always have and always will.”


	7. Pinnochio

He was rushing, the working day was almost at an end. Rose was waiting for him to get back to finish the last chapters of their latest novel, Adventures of Pinocchio, the little boy whose nose would grow when he lied. It was a fun game, every time Rose lied, he would claim her nose was growing. She would run to the mirror to check, frowning when she found it to be precisely the same size. He was shelving the last of a delivery of new medicines when the doorbell rang signalled a customer entering.

“I will be with you in a minute,” John called from behind the counter.

"There is no rush.” That voice, like warm caramel on cold ice cream. He shot up from behind the counter to see the indifferent swagger of Giorgio, running a finger over the counter like he was inspecting for dust. “We don’t want you hurting yourself from the exertion.” Giorgio quipped proactively, his tongue sharp and witty.

“How can I help you, Giorgio?” John said dryly, checking the time of the grand clock that sat on the wall, not in the mood to play games with the boy.

“I am here to collect my Mother’s medicine and pay the bill.” John nodded; Theodore left some bottles on the side. He shuffled over to them, the delicate clink of glass filled the silence as he looked for the right one. John could feel Giorgio’s stare once again boring into him, glancing up momentarily to embarrass the boy for such a glare, but Giorgio didn’t even blink. Instead, he moved closer, the counter keeping them separate. John could feel his cheeks burn from the force of his emerald eyes scorching into his skin.

“Found it!” he said over-enthusiastically, almost glad to have a reason to break the silence. John passed the bottle to the boy, gulping as their skin touched, his hands still soft. A crash of glass breaking on stone instantly brought him back to the moment.

“Oh dear, that was clumsy of you,” Giorgio said nonchalantly, staring at the broken shards of glass on the floor. John ranked against the suggestion; he wasn’t the clumsy one. In any other situation, Giorgio would be challenged for his interpretation of what happened. Instead, he knew enough not to challenge the customer, his wages would be docked for the clumsiness. He quickly traversed the counter and knelt to the broken bottle.

“I can’t give you another bottle, you will have to come back when Theodore…I mean Doctor Scott is here.” John said abruptly as he picked up the shards of glass. Placing them delicately in his palm, trying not to hurt himself.

“Look, you’re bleeding,” Giorgio said softly, kneeling to join John, tenderly grabbing his wrist to see the wound. His skin tingled from the touch, he became light-headed as the sensation of Giorgio’s soft-touch began to spread across his body. He was melting but he couldn’t, not here, not in work.

“It’s nothing, just a nick.” He said abruptly, unceremoniously pulling them apart. Blood trickled down from his finger to his wrist. It didn’t hurt, he had been wounded far too many times for this small flesh wound to even register. He rose quickly, moving to the backroom to discard the glass and find a cloth to stop the bleeding. He took a breath trying to compose himself, the closeness of Giorgio raising his temperature and his appendage.

“Does it hurt?” Giorgio said, he stood against the door frame.

“No!” John responded, annoyed that he had been followed. Giorgio swaggered across the small contained room. He closed the space between them, John stiffened, unsure what the sadistic young man wanted. Without saying a word, he grabbed his wrist again. John tried to struggle but found Giorgio was actually stronger than him. Relinquishing a semblance of control to the ruddy-cheeked boy felt wrong, weak but John was intrigued to see what this boy with soft hands intended to do. Much to John’s surprise, Giorgio pulled his wounded hand to his mouth, forcing his index finger to penetrate those thick lips. He sucked hard, the warm heat and moist saliva of his cavernous hole made John bite down on his own bottom lip. A popping noise echoed in the room as his lips released his finger for a second, that sound almost made him come undone. John gawped as Giorgio proceeded to suck up and down, his tongue ran along the length of his finger. There was no use fighting it John was hard, his trousers tight with his touch starved member, as Giorgio used his finger to imitate such a lewd act. He let the boy play, explore and found him ready, but John couldn’t be hand’s off. The ring of the doorbell broke them, Giorgio’s dimpled cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he hastened his escape from the back room. John followed; aware a customer was waiting for his attention.

“I expect a replacement bottle to be brought to the Ranch tomorrow.” Giorgio hollered, rushing for the door almost crashing into the newly entered customer.

“I thought I was not welcome at the Ranch?” John interjected, wanting to embarrass the boy further.

“Just….do as I say.” Was all the befuddled boy could murmur as he left the shop.

“What a strange young man.” The bemused customer said.

“You can say that again.” John acknowledged, watching the boy escape clumsily across the street.

The day was finally over, and John rode Jezebel back to the rectory. His mind tried to piece together enough to define the strange young man that was quickly becoming a distraction in his life. He was rude, obnoxious, funny, witty, strong and soft. Was Giorgio a bitter spoilt brat? Used to taking what he wanted and only to discard it when he grew board, John couldn’t bear to be used again. It seemed like the most obvious answer, but something in the back of John’s mind pulled him in a different direction. Inexperience, fear and desire, once made him behave erratically. Jumping in headfirst and then pushing away just as quickly. He used to fight with Arthur for no reason other than the anger of not being touched by the older man. When he did finally kiss him, he was ferocious, hungry, needy only to run away. John smiled, Giorgio needed guidance, a gentle, soothing hand to show him how to explore safely. He pushed the thought; John wasn’t experienced enough to be that person. He entered the court-yard to find Rose poised and waiting. 

“I know, I am late!” he called over, her frown showing her discontent with his tardiness. He smiled, lifting her lightweight into his arms. She smiled, never able to stay mad at him for long. As they ascended the stairs of the porch, they were greeted by two strangers John didn’t recognise. The man was tall and slender, dressed in finery that spoke to apparent wealth. His wife was plump, her ruffled dress did little to accentuate her figure, but she looked kind and homely.

“Goodbye, Rose, dear.” She said, reaching to pinch her cheek. John instinctively stepped back, wanting to protect Rose from the intrusion. Her eyes shot a glance of shock and John instantly realised his rudeness.

“Mr and Mrs Jameson are leaving now Rose, say goodbye.” The Sister commanded. Rose obliged before hiding her face in John’s shoulder; her shyness around new people could be crippling. John squeezed her tight, trying to reassure himself as much as her. They remained planted on the spot as the couple boarded their carriage and departed.

“Who were they?” John inquired, fearful of the answer.

“It is nothing to worry yourself with, they were here to see Rose but very rarely does something come of it.” The Sister said reassuringly. John looked into the youngster’s eyes, clearly confused and slightly frightened by the interaction. He was aware that Rose was destined for adoption, but didn’t like to dwell. Her presence gave him strength, purpose, John wasn’t sure of his place without her needing him. If Sister said not to worry, then he wouldn’t, she had earned that trust from him.

“Come on, Pinocchio isn’t going to finish itself.” He positioned her on his hip and walked her into the rectory.


	8. Obsession

May 1879

The moon had cycled several times since the night Arthur lay in Dutch’s arms surrendering kisses, his lips swelling from the intensity of the friction. He awoke the next day and several days after with a spring in his step, happy to please and do whatever Dutch asked of him. It was only as time passed did the anxiety start to grow. Dutch became remote, removed from individual interactions, and he didn’t know why? His casual education that the older man revelled in teaching was now being conducted by Hosea. Any job that was given was now discussed as a group; others always present. Even on rare occasions when Dutch had a need to leave camp, he would always make sure someone else was with him. Arthur was being pushed out.

“Where did Dutch go?” Arthur whined to Hosea when he couldn’t find their leader.

“Out on a job.” Hosea murmured over his morning paper. Arthur kicked at the dirt for a second, trying to appear nonplussed by the revelation when his body betraying him as each muscled trembled with rage. Dutch was ignoring him. With a few sneaky glances around camp, he established everyone else was still there, which meant Dutch was on his own. He checked his path was clear before storming over to Samson his mottle brown Morgan.

“Where is he going!” Susan groaned. The boy was entertaining his awkward phase, all angsty and full energy, none of which was directed towards his camp chores.

“After Dutch, again.” Hosea rattled from his paper, barely shooting a glance over to the annoyed Susan.

“Is Dutch aware he has a living breathing shadow? One that fails to do any chores!” Susan lamented Arthur had grown peculiarly needy of Dutch’s attention recently, it certainly wasn’t healthy.

“Arthur has hit that time in his life where our company isn’t enough for him, Dutch is closer to his age, can explain things better.” Hosea chimed, trying to end the conversation before it descended into the ins and outs of how Arthur should negotiate puberty.

“I don’t want whoring in my camp, Hosea.” She bluntly responded.

“That isn’t going to happen, hence why he keeps leaving camp, Susan.” His tone tart, he graciously rose from his perch, mockingly bowed towards Susan and sought peace and quiet away from her.

“He is too young to be whoring if you ask me,” Susan called after him

“No one’s asking you,” Hosea responded under his breath.

Arthur and Samsun ambled for miles, the small mottled Morgan was not as valiant or as proud as the other horses but was loyal, Arthur treasured that. Several times Dutch had offered to buy him a new one, complaining the Morgan was too small. Arthur wanted a horse more befitting his recent growth spurt, one that would please his leader, but had yet to find the right one. It was a special horse that would make Arthur betray his loyalty to Samsun.

Arthur attempted to track the Count, but one horseshoe-shaped scuff looked very much like another. He wasn’t very good at tracking, Hosea tried to show him how a few times, but it was early days. He couldn’t track the Count, but he understood Dutch. The older man rarely left camp without a purpose. He refused to enter the town as it was littered with his portrait. The sky was lit with hues of burnt orange as the afternoon sun began descending, so he wouldn’t have gone far, secretly scared of the dark. There was no job, Dutch would have alluded to it in some way by now, incapable of keeping certain thoughts to himself. Arthur decided if he meandered around the roads and paths close to the camp, he would eventually discover the prize he was seeking. The man who was trying so hard to avoid even the briefest of conversations.

After two hours of searching, he spied the unmistakable shape of the Count. The large horse was stabled outside a small rundown homestead. _Perhaps Dutch was visiting someone?_ Arthur approached with trepidation, fearful that he would interrupt his leader in some nefarious rouse, get a slap upside his head for his troubles. With his mind distracted by other things, he hitched Samsun next to the Count, instantly regretting it. The two did not care for each other’s company, grunting and slamming their hooves, fighting for dominance. Arthur tried to steady them, but it was too late.

“Arthur, what are you doing here?” Dutch called from the doorway. Arthur was tight-lipped; he couldn’t speak the truth. _I am stalking you Dutch because I am obsessed and you are ignoring me,_ isn’t the most endearing statement a man can make to the person he desires most, even if that was how he felt.

“I... ah”, nothing came to him, so he shrugged his shoulders.

“Get in here before someone sees you,” Dutch ordered. Arthur jumped at the command, obedient as ever. He quickly pushed past Dutch into the homestead. Any anger felt toward his leader instantly turning to fear that he’d done something wrong.

“You have to stop following me Arthur, people will get suspicious.” Dutch was calm, his words the first he spoke intruding to their secret. Their first kiss, that perfect night, was so long-ago Arthur wasn’t even sure it had happened, since that night, nothing. Arthur was not so dense to raise the topic in camp. Which is why when Dutch left, he followed. Unfortunately, all the plans in the world could not stop Arthur’s mouth from becoming stuck with honey every time he found the older outlaw alone.

“What is this place, Dutch?” Arthur questioned, it appeared uninhabited from the outside but inside, a small fire burned, a pot bubbling on the stove. There was a modest bed with sheets and covers. It was homely.

“This is our place, Arthur, not finished yet, but some people are nosy and spoil surprises.” Dutch held his arms open unveiling the mediocre lodging as though it were a palace. Arthur misconstrued the action as an invitation to hug the man, collapsing his full weight onto him almost sending them both toppling.

“I thought you regretted it... I thought you didn’t want me.” Arthur sobbed. Dutch revelled in the sentiment, to be needed, desired so totally by one as handsome as Arthur. Did it matter if they were both men? Certainly not if Arthur was willing to play the part of a woman.

“I was giving you space Arthur, I needed to be convinced you were certain,” Dutch said, wrapping his arms around the younger man. “By the time I realised that you were sure you had changed into an obsessive mess.” Dutch chuckled, aware Arthur thought he was discreet. That his puppy dog eyes lingering after him, the fumbled attempts to get him alone, the stalking when he was outside camp only to turn mute, had all gone unnoticed. At first, Dutch was beside him in his pain, wishing the awkwardness away. Then it became a game, watching him squirm from embarrassment, unable to verbalise his cravings to be touched.

“I told you, Arthur, we will explore this together, but you need to tell me what you want and when you want it. I am not a mind reader.” Dutch held his shaking frame in his arms, he was still small enough to be cuddled.

“I promise Dutch, I will do better,” Dutch smirked at the promise, such loyalty, not even Annabelle was this blindly obedient. It made him hard thinking about how his protégé would never say no to him. All he needed was a little attention from time to time.

“So…. seeing as you are here, we might as well use the time wisely.” Dutch raised a suggestive eyebrow. Arthur processed the situation. He began to hyperventilate at the suggestion, stumbling, knocking over a chair as he tried to breathe.

“Arthur, what’s wrong!” Dutch yelled worried he’d killed the boy.

“Nothing Dutch...” Arthur gasped for air.

“It is clearly something?” Dutch used his commanding tone.

“I am not ready Dutch, not for that.” Arthur coughed. Dutch hovered for a moment before he realised what was bothering Arthur.

“Neither am I, you prized idiot! You’re still a boy; it would be wrong! How could you think that I would do that? you’re fifteen!” Dutch was enraged, the sudden realisation of how improper any relationship between them would be when Arthur was still so young.

“I am sorry Dutch, I didn’t mean to, I just….” Arthur pulled himself up, still spluttering, concerned he had blown it. “I will be sixteen soon.” Was all he could to say to sate the anger bubblin in his leader. Dutch burst out laughing, _oh to be young again_, he thought to himself, not seeing the irony that he was only eight years older, technically still young.

“I love you, boy, your single-mindedness, if you want something, then that is all you think about until you get it and to hell with the consequences.” Dutch squeezed him again, proud of his protégé’s focus, very few had such ability to fixate on a goal like Arthur did. He would be a lethal enforcer once Dutch had finished crafting him. Arthur smiled, glad to have made him happy.

“There are plenty of other things we can do, other than that.” Dutch pressed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, trying to reassure him. “I think you deserve a reward.” Dutch smiled wickedly. Arthur stopped reverberating and calmed himself, the fear subsided, allowing intrigue to settle in him.

“Like what?” Arthur said confused, he was especially gorgeous when he didn’t know something. Almost sulky, with pouty lips, it could drive a religious man to sin. Dutch whispered in his ear; Arthur’s cheeks turned crimson red. He nervously collapsed to his knees, aligning his face with Dutch’s now unsheathed manhood. It was undoubtedly thick, not too long, not as long as Arthur’s but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do this.

“Come on, Arthur, I promise you will enjoy this, follow my instructions,” Dutch said as he proceeded to rest the bulbous head of his cock on the thick lips of Arthur, teasing his lower lip. The fear sat in those deep blue ocean eyes made Dutch’s stomach roll with anticipation. Arthur’s first experience was going to be over fast as Dutch wasn’t convinced, he could contain himself. He slowly breached his moist lips, groaning with pleasure as he penetrated the cavernous hole that was Arthur’s mouth. Intoxicated by the thought, he was their first, before any other man. Like tales of Knights of old, Dutch was storming Arthur’s ramparts. In control, he inched deeper and deeper tantalisingly waiting for the cough that always came through deep oral penetration. He wanted to feel the satisfaction of Arthur chocking on his manhood. It didn’t happen. Arthur adept and talented at most things he put his mind to, consumed Dutch’s cock expertly. They remained still, Dutch surprised of this newfound talent, Arthur waiting for instruction, unsure what was pleasurable about this whole experience. 

“Move Arthur.” Dutch finally proclaimed. Arthur did what he was told, bobbing his head back and forth across his length, a few strangled coughs as his airways blocked with the thick head didn’t stop his fluid movements. The introduction of his tongue, caressing the length of his shaft ended Dutch. Before he could warn his protégé, thick ribbons of cum released into Arthur’s mouth, spilling from his chin. Arthur withdrew, attempting to wipe his face to remove evidence of the shameful act he had just performed.

“Let me look at you,” Dutch said, pulling his chin up away from his hands. Arthur obeyed gazing forlornly into his leader’s smouldering coals eyes.

“That was beautiful Arthur.” Dutch whimpered, enchanted by this boy who could do such wicked things with his mouth and portray such innocence in his expressions. Arthur could earn 10 times any whore in the whole state with that mouth, and it was all Dutch’s to use.

“You are a good boy.” Dutch moaned, he knew those words would suppress the demons in Arthur’s mind, the boy loved praise.

“Was it good?” Arthur was seeking more of what he wanted most.

“It was the best I have ever had.” He beamed with pride, Dutch was experienced in these things, if he said Arthur was the best, then Arthur believed it.

“Can we do it again?” Arthur inquired, eager to please.

“Not just now, you will learn as you get older, it takes a while to rejuvenate,” Dutch smirked at the thought, this would satisfy him for days, if not weeks.

“Can you do it for me?” Arthur was giddy with the excitement of being at the receiving end of such pleasure.

“Maybe some other time, as I told you, I am not that way inclined.” Dutch waved his hands, reaffirming his firmly held position on the matter.

Arthur couldn’t hide his disappointment, his frame visibly shrinking from the rejection, the realisation that Dutch’s participation was guidance and nothing more, Arthur wanted more, wanted to be loved. Dutch could see the frustration blooming in the boy and threw him a bone

“I will do it; eventually, you just need to give me time, Arthur.” Dutch patted him on the head in acknowledgement. “Now let’s get back before they send out a search party.” Arthur pulled himself up from the floor, wiping away the residue of Dutch’s seed which was tacky on his skin. His mind racing, was this who he was now, a rent boy and nothing more? At least rent boys got paid!, Did he trust Dutch's promise? he shook the thought, he would never doubt Dutch.


	9. A name so sweet

The wretched heat of the summer sun did nothing to supress his desire. His skin glistening with beads of sweat, making him dream of the cooling flow of water majestically lapping against the shoreline. The breeze capturing the salty brine of sea easing the untenable closeness of burning heat, Hades himself would struggle with. His mind elevated, floating, watching the intolerable rays storming through the foliage ramparts, their tree sanctuary breached by the Smith’s forge that consumed the sky.

With few small mercies providing the relief he remained focussed on the real reason he dared to rest near water, a fear he meticulously nurtured since childhood. The isolation, the beauty of land meeting sea, the heat and breeze, the four elements that sustained life, integral for survival, to grow, feed, breathe and love. He was captured in this moment, lying on the lusty grass, his shirt unbuttoned, chest exposed, his body aching but relaxed. His mind was not so tranquil, fearful, racing with all the possibilities. _Why? Why had he not grown? Not changed?_ He used to list all his doubts and fears about Arthur, those lists never proving as bad or proving worse than he could imagine. The outcomes always on the periphery of what his uneducated mind was willing to believe possible. _Why was he doing this now, again?_ Giorgio was not Arthur, his aloofness, his youth a juxtaposition to the broken and torn man who taught him his desires, who taught him survival. Trained him so well that it became evident, the futility of their love that was destined to fail. He hated Arthur for the recklessly teaching him how to love and loved him for carelessly breaking his heart. Without him, John would never feel the courage he now felt with Giorgio, the pair beautifully innocent and emboldened to explore and discover, to understand touch, feel, sense. John rolled with the expectation of that final breath, inhaling the scent of a new lover moments before claiming them as your own.

Here in his dreams, Giorgio lay next to him on the grass, not speaking just being. Watching but not observing. Aware of the significance but not brazen enough to take the steps. John wanted him to make a move to confirm to him what he suspected. The crushing feeling that this could be one-sided, the sickness in him not reciprocated. The fear was at the tip of every nerve still was not enough to stop the burning itch. He wanted Giorgio, wanted to feel those thick moist lips against his own. Feel his soft hands work along his skin, mapping every inch, committing it to memory. To know on lonely nights as his future wife and children slept confident in their worlds. Giorgio would be hard, imagining a different existence, imagining his body, his skin, the sensation of his shaft leaking in his mouth. _Would he remember the feeling, the salty metallic warm viscous spend coating his virgin mouth?_

He bit his lip, this was his moment of surrender, the shyness in him subsiding as he lent over. He was educated enough not to dive in, the moment of anticipation sweeter than the act. He ran a finger over his top lip and then the bottom, those ripened juicy lips full to bursting, ready to be plucked like a ripe plum from the tree. He pulled gently at his bottom lip and then withdrew. His eyes burning with desire were fixated on the green hues, they were wild from the intrusion. John still unsure if he read this right, on a flip of the coin, it could go either way. The withdrawal of his finger was met with a gasp, the boy eager for its return moved his gaping mouth forward, collapsing his lips into the palm of his hand. The chambers of his heart opened and closed as they always did, his stomach churned slightly at the signal.

There was nothing to lose, if he proceeded then and it went wrong at least they both would know they tried, they explored that small fluttering within. Finding that it was just a queer moment, an undigested bit of food, a worry that had not been identified that had been misconstrued. The feeling of love or the passion of falling was the same feeling of loss, fear, anxiety, _how was one to know if it was one or the other, truly?_ The only way was the act of surrender to test and be sure that test was right the right time and in the right place.

The kiss he mused would be chased, not passionless but reserved, just lips brushing. It was softness they needed, to be pliable and humane with each other. Aggression, force, dominance they were exciting, erotic, making the blood pump faster, there might be a place in their relationship for those things but not yet. Not while the bud of their rose still remained closed, it needed nurture and nature, those blessed elements that surrounded them, most of all it required time. Their youth gave them that, all the time in the world.

John imagined their lips parting for the first time, _would he smile? _Would he blush? Would his coyness make him hide slightly trying to conceal his eagerness of want? Could he be those things? Or would he be the leader, authoritative and courageous? What if Giorgio was inexperienced? He didn’t know. There was so much left to learn, he was dragged along by Arthur, everything seemed to move so fast, and there were such long periods of nothingness how was he ever supposed to learn. Perhaps if they had more time together, he would be more experienced.

“Hi, John” Giorgio’s soft voice called like a siren, his ship and all who sailed in her, lost on the rocks.

“Are you ok?” his dimples betraying a chaste smile. John, still in the half-light of his dream, mumbled an incoherent sentence. Then he found himself once again, instantly embarrassed by how long he had been lost.

“Sorry, Giorgio, I was miles away.” He frowned from embarrassment, dismounting Jezebel.

“I could see, how is miles away, still thriving I hope?” John blushed, Giorgio had a levity to him that was caring and sarcastic and challenging. Was it an invitation to speak his thoughts? A command? Or just a brush off, a quip in response and nothing more. John’s blushed deepened, overwhelmed by his presence, he wanted to seep into every pore. Walk-in his skin for the day, study his brain like a thesaurus to understand every word that left his lips intimately, to know the right response.

“I suppose this will be your last visit, my mother is almost back to herself. Dr Barnes mentioned during his last visit.” The words were casual, dismissing as though an acquaintance were about to leave forever. John could not be so relaxed with the totality, his response blunt and cruel.

“Well, until someone else gets sick, this is a big ranch.” He huffed nonchalantly.

Giorgio’s green eyes stared with their usual crippling intensity. The pressure they exuded once again burning John’s skin with every second they remained. He could feel the shyness consuming him, rising from his gut and spreading in every direction, he couldn’t let this be their last time. He forced his eyes on the young man, and they were locked together, desperately trying to read each other’s motives.

“That it is, Mr Marston, that it is.” That name, his father’s name from his father’s land, given by a world that didn’t want John. Why would he call him such a name? Having offered John as his real name not a moment after rolling in the dirt together. John was his moniker every meeting between them, now so cruelly reverted back to Mr Marston. John cursed his wretched bravery; he pushed and was left wanting in the void that Giorgio had expertly crafted for him. Why was he so cruel, so eager to bring him close and then push him away? Why was he ever allowed to meet a man called Giorgio and call him only by his name, call him Giorgio and nothing else.

“I should be getting these to your mother.” John motioned to the house, his walk stiff as he could feel every string his heart willingly wrapped around the boy break and snap. He grimaced from the pain but confirmed he would survive it, if he could survive Arthur, he could survive anything.

“Hey, Mr Marston, John, I should say. I am free tomorrow afternoon. I like to spend it hunting, are you any good at hunting?” Giorgio appeared cocksure and arrogant, was he genuinely asking or was this just another game. If he said yes, would he receive an offer of the captured game to take back to the church? A gesture of politeness that would cripple his heart

“I am ok, good enough.” John wanted to say something witty, confidently boast how he was the best shot in his gang but he couldn’t. Not without confirming his unpalatable existence to this squeaky-clean rancher’s son. For a moment he was tickled, in his past life he could have been robbing Giorgio at gunpoint, threatening him with death. Yet in this life, he could barely rub two words together without sounding like a prized moron. Arthur’s voice chimed the last word, always his put down, that an idiot.

“Then it is a date, meet me here tomorrow at noon.” He glided effervescently not even awaiting John’s agreement to the arrangement. John chuckled to himself, you are such a fool, Mr Marston, to be so enamoured with a person he barely knew. Giorgio flew in the face of everything he had been taught, do not trust strangers, conceal your own identity from others, play every angle. Here he was transparent, laid bare, revealing everything as though he stood naked in the ranch, every inch of his skin exposed to that inscrutable gaze. Yet still, he was left wanting, A date! A date! Did he mean a date? A day of the month in the year, where he was crudely pencilled in like a dinner guest at a fancy St-Denis supper. Or did he mean date, two people with similar passions alone together in a setting where they can explore those passions? A date... he walked to the ranch house, knocked the door and handed the medicine over to the maid as was custom. A date his mind rattled, Giorgio certainly had a command of the English language that always left him wondering what he meant.

He mounted Jezebel when the full horror of the date hit him, his quarrel should not be with the meaning in Giorgio’s opinion of their date. His present difficulties were with Theodore and whether he would allow him the time off. The apothecary was a hard, religious man who believed a man’s purpose was to toil themselves to death, to meet their maker sufficiently worked and poor of time. “The devil makes work for idle hands, Mr Marston, the devil, makes work for idle hands.” The devil wanted to take his idle hands and get them working over Giorgio’s heavenly body. Who was John to disagree with him, God had no place in John’s plans. The sacrilegious thought made him hard, his throbbing member becoming a mainstay from his visits at the ranch.

He found a place, after his second visit, an abandoned run-down shed, it provided enough cover to touch himself thinking of Giorgio. That and it didn’t feel appropriate touching himself at the church, too many innocent eyes could catch him. He wished he could take all day, massaging his shaft, getting himself to the edge and pulling back just enough not to spill and then go again. He had been lucky in that respect; camp life could be annoying most of the time. When his lust for Arthur was in its full flow, he could spend hours exploring his body, what he liked, what felt right. Beth gifting him toys to help would lose him for days in that tent, seductively placed next door to his intended. These days his wrist was a pro at finding the right angle and pressure to be done within a minute or two, _oh the romance_ he gasped as his spend hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you think its going? Do we like Giorgio? Are we missing Arthur and John? Is the story meandering a bit too much or are you happy with the flow?


	10. What brought us together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than all the other chapters I have written but I couldn't break it up. This is the origin story, different to all other chapters as its broken scenes, what brought John and Arthur together. Enjoy.

March 1886

“I am worried about Arthur,” Annabelle said, pulling up a chair to sit next to Dutch.

“He has lost Eliza and Isaac; how do you expect him to be?” Dutch puffed on his cigar. Arthur returned from his usual visit to the family and didn’t speak a word. It was only when the time came for him to visit again, and he was questioned why he hadn’t gone, the truth came out. _Can’t visit dead people_, he calmly said around the supper table. Of course, by that time the darkness had taken hold, none of them saw it coming. Dutch was monitoring the situation; it was worse than Annabelle could have imagined. He followed Arthur several times to an opium den on the outskirts of town; if he wasn’t high, he was drunk and fighting. Camp funds were drastically low, Arthur wasn’t contributing, and John was an additional mouth to feed they hadn’t planned on. Dutch vowed the next time Arthur left camp he would challenge him.

That day, that day, when everything changed and tragically remained the same. Everyone dutifully played their part without realising they were complicit, the only person who tried to stop it was John. Dutch followed Arthur to the opium den, confronted him and convinced him that opium was not the answer. Numbness would not allow him to heal; it just concealed the pain. Dutch held him as he bawled his eyes out, the grief finally catching up, leaving him broken in his leader’s arms. Dutch always saved him when it mattered.

*****

Returning to the gang, they were greeted with chaos; the camp had been ransacked. The air thick with gun smoke, blood sprayed across broken furniture; bodies lay massacred on the ground, none belonging to the gang. Arthur’s thoughts were immediate and pure, _where was John?_ He called for him, his lean frame shaking, his eyes wild, his clothes blood-soaked. Arthur lifted him into an honest hug before searching his body for injury.

“It’s not my blood” he muffled through his sobs. Hosea approached Dutch, spoke in tones too soft for the others to hear, the man’s face sunk into an ashen grey.

“Where did they take her?” Dutch flew towards his oldest friend stricken with fear, gabbing his lapels.

“They didn’t Dutch, she is here.” Hosea clutched at the man, pulling him close, whispering in his ear. “She hasn’t got long, be brave.” Dutch buckled; Hosea a rock steadying him enough to lead him to Annabelle.

“I don’t want you taking revenge for this, you hear me, Dutch Van Der Linde. You keep my boys safe. John and Arthur need protecting.” Annabelle choked through her laboured breathing. The pain of the bullet wound had been lessened by Susan’s cocktail of drugs. The silence of camp was broken by the animalistic growl as Annabelle took her last breath. 

“Why didn’t you send for a Doctor?” Dutch yelled at Susan. The woman overcome with emotion from losing a dear friend.

“The blood was black, there was no way she would have survived. All I could do was make her comfortable.” Susan protested, sure she did everything in her power to save Annabelle. Susan left him cowed and sobbing over his departed, he stayed there for hours brooding over the loss.

“Arthur! We need to go after them!” Dutch yelled, finding Arthur curled up in his cot with John. Both with puffy blood shot eyes, cradled in each other’s arms.

“Dutch they will be long gone.” Arthur reasoned. This incensed him; it was not up for discussion. Dutch lurched towards the young outlaw pulling him by the scruff of his neck dragging him from the tent.

“Don’t question me, son.” He cried out in anger. Arthur receiving a punch for good measure as he was dragged across the dirt; too weak with emotion to fight.

“Don’t go!” John cried after them.

“You want to stay in this gang!” Dutch kicked at the dust of John’s feet; the boy flinched having not witnessed this side of Dutch. Their leader kicked Arthur, his ribs cracking from the force of impact. John tumbled; this was punishment for insubordination.

“Dutch! This is not the time.” Hosea tried to reason with his crazed friend. “Leave it to the morning.”

“Will everyone stop questioning me, it was my Annabelle who died.” Hosea backed off, turning to the young John who was crying in terror. He could only protect one of them and John was younger and more vulnerable. Dutch jabbed at Arthur until the younger outlaw yielded. He rose from the ground, his nose bloodied, cradling his bruised ribs. He stared longingly at the terrified John and the concerned Hosea. His own eyes broken with fear, he would not be returning. Dutch was out of control, the two of them were not it a fit state to take on the O’Driscolls.

“Let’s go,” he said relenting to his leader's demands. They unhitched the horses.

“Please don’t go!” John begged, anger writhing across his young face as he sobbed into Hosea’s side. Arthur felt drawn to comfort him, tell him it was ok but Dutch was in no mood for games.

*****

“We have been searching for hours.” Arthur dared to challenge, the sun long set and the darkness making it treacherous to continue.

“I know where they are!” Dutch hollered, Arthur recognised he was lying, they had been through this stretch twice already. They meandered for a further hour until an insignificant dirt track led them to a small croft concealed by trees. Lights hung in the door frame, but no sounds came from within.

“Here it is, you take the front, I will go around the back.” Arthur nodded, he was resolute that this was folly, they would only survive if he went in shooting at everything that moved. Arthur moved swiftly in the darkness like a ghost. He crept onto the rickety porch, peering through the window to see, nothing, perhaps they were out or asleep. He tried the door, it was unlocked, opening it slowly, gun cocked and ready for the onslaught. Then darkness.

Arthur groaned in agony as his body thudded to the floor; he inched across the room as some unknown force clicked the bolt of the door shut. The light was fuzzy, he could make out specific shapes, a chair, the stove but nothing substantial. “Dutch?” he called confused as the older man stood above him as he submitted to darkness.

Arthur regained consciousness, a grotesque pain stabbing his insides, preventing him from sleeping further. Had he been shot? A heavy weight constricted his chest, making every breath sharp, he passed out again.

“This is all your fault, if you hadn’t been smoking that shit if I hadn’t come to find you, I would have been there, she would still be alive.” Dutch’s voice was muffled, he inhaled the scent of the man, his aroma sickly sweet, he was close by but too far away to keep him conscious.

“You have taken the only person I loved away from me.” His words were muffled, broken with grunts of aggression. Arthur groaned as the intensity of the pain shot through every nerve. Was this death, was he on the other side? The stabbing pain previously dull was now tight and piercing stopping the ensuing darkness from returning, he was awake and his insides were being torn apart. His head tilted upwards enough to see what was happening. 

He cried out. “Dutch m’ sorry, Dutch, please stop, please you’re hurting me.” He tried to crawl away, to make it stop, every movement made him wretch with sickness. His fingernails dug into the wooden floor, clawing, as he pleaded over and over, _please stop_.

*****

Arthur woke with a crippling headache. The rays of light from the morning sun danced across the dust-filled room burning into his eyes. His hair matted with dried blood. For a brief moment, he thought it must have been a dream brought on by his head injury, but then he tried to move. Every muscle screamed in agony as the intense burning sensation shot through his insides. He was naked and alone, left where Dutch had taken him the night before. Biting his fist, he screamed in despair as the full extent of the attack dawned on him. His mind raced, trying to find a logical reason, an excuse, an explanation. Not Dutch, is all he could think to himself as he pulled his clothes on, disgusted by the sight of his own nakedness. The trickle of wetness down his thigh made him vomit.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” Dutch’s voice boomed from the doorway. “One hell of a night, come on we need to get back to camp, bury Annabelle.” His aloofness was a con, Arthur bore witness to it too many times. He was frozen stiff by his presence, incapable of voicing the truth, to accuse him openly about the assault. His pupils were wide making his eyes black as he realised, they were never looking for the O’Driscolls, Dutch planned everything.

They rode back to camp, Arthur shaking uncontrollably, his body and mind in unison twitching rejecting the older man’s closeness, every part of his being screamed, run. His thoughts rattled, blaming himself, blaming Dutch, blaming the dearly departed Annabelle. Once that became unbearable, the images of the night, scarred in his mind, played over and over again, he was sick three more times. Dutch warned him not to drink so much in future, he vomited again.

“Their back!” John screamed with joy as Arthur gingerly lowered himself off Boadicea. John ran towards them arms ready to greet him in a hug. Instead he was pushed away with such force he landed on his ass. The rest of the camp solemnly gathered unsure of which Dutch was returning or the state they were in. Dutch greeted them with an apology for his behaviour, was met with hugs and kisses of understanding. Arthur retreated to his tent, collapsing on his cot. He needed to wash, remove every inch of last night from his skin but he couldn’t, he was too weak to fight, to broken to hide. He curled up into a ball and cried.

*****

“Arthur, why are you bleeding?” John quaked from the tent opening, he could see Arthur’s blood-stained pants. Arthur didn’t respond, he couldn’t speak, unaware of the damage working its way through his body. “I’ll get Hosea” John gently confirmed before running to find the older man.

“No, John, don’t, I’ll be fine.” Arthur croaked, wanting it to stop but too feeble to control it.

“What’s wrong, son,” Hosea said, greeted by the skittish John. Still too young to fully appreciate what he was witness to. He understood Arthur was private, he didn’t like his business to be discussed openly, so John whispered into the older man’s ear, ensuring no one else could hear.

“Arthurs bleeding in his pants,” John said, the older man remained stoic.

“You get on with your chores, I will see to Arthur.” He patted the boy on his head. “Oh John, this stays between us.” John nodded, through his concern for Arthur he was also pleased. So many secrets and whispers happened in camp now he was part of one, part of the gang. Hosea found Arthur lying on his cot, raised slightly on his elbows. Trying to conceal what they both were painfully aware of by the grimaces on each other’s faces.

“Who did it to you son?” Hosea had always been pragmatic when it came to things like this. Deal with the symptoms and then worry about the cause.

“O’Driscolls.” Arthur lied, lied so expertly he didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Dutch taught him that. Now he was lying to protect the man who violated him, who took all that was left in his sad pathetic life, his masculinity. 

“Are you still bleeding?” Hosea said softly, remaining a few feet away. He wanted to hold Arthur tell him it was ok; the boy was shaking something fierce any touch could destroy any remaining grit the boy pocessed.

“Where was Dutch?” Hosea couldn’t help himself; his fit of grief was no excuse to allow this to happen. Losing Annabelle might have been devastating, this was unforgivable.

“He doesn’t know, don’t tell him, please Hosea.” Arthur cried out. Hosea understood Arthur protecting Dutch, they always shared that bond above everyone else in the gang. This would break him, knowing his foolishness had gotten the boy raped.

“Come to town with me we will get a doctor” Hosea reached out a hand, Arthur hesitated momentarily before accepting it. The doctor, a known friend of the gang, examined Arthur and stitched him. He felt violated all over again. His body reeling against every touch as it imprinting bruises that would never fade.

“You listen to me, son,” The doctor said. “This happens more than polite society is willing to admit. I have seen too many men find themselves a sturdy beam after such an act has been committed.” The thought had crossed his mind several times already. “That isn’t going to happen to you. You’re broad in the shoulder, tall in height, probably already expert with a gun. Give it a year or two and you can exact vengeance on the world, maybe find the man that did this to you. But you can only do that if you are still living, do you hear me, boy?” Arthur nodded to the doctor if some stranger had done this to him; those words could be a mantra repeated daily. It was no stranger, it was Dutch.

*****

Weeks passed, no one in the camp apart from Hosea and Dutch knew of Arthur’s turmoil. Once was overly comforting whilst the other remained reticent to his crime. Everyone else assumed Arthur was being surly because he experienced another loss so soon after that of Eliza and Isaac, even John got the message and gave him a wide berth. Arthur thought on the doctor’s words time and time again, find himself a study beam. That was not how Arthur wanted to go, in a dusty barn that smelled of shit. He wanted to be in the wild, nature surrounding him, the only place he felt happy. One morning, months after the assault, he woke early and left camp.

The spray from Donner falls wetted his face, he found the perfect place. The water hit so violently against the boulders, it drummed like a thousand soldiers marching on their target. His heartbeat in rhythm with nature, where he belonged, away from civilisation, apart from the people he disappointed time and time again. Once he jumped no one would find him, he would be free not disappoint anymore.

“Arthur what are you doing, son.” Dutch’s voice was barely audible against the crashing sound of water. He edged gingerly over the rocks, full of moss and wetness. How Arthur got out on the ledge, he didn’t know. “Come back here, son. We can talk about it.”

“There is nothing to discuss Dutch, I don’t want to live no more.” Arthur turned away, this was not the man who would stop him, he looked down, the spray welcoming as it bounced from the sturdy rocks. The vision of his body splayed, blood leaving his cracked head, a smile staring up at the man who had been everything, who had taken everything.

“Don’t be stupid, Arthur, you have the gang, we are family.” Dutch roared to be heard over the crashing water.

“Family don’t hurt each other Dutch, not like you hurt me.” Arthur was soaking wet, his hair stuck to his face. He was angry and resolute, not broken at all. When Arthur made his mind up to do something there was nothing in this world that could stop him. _So single-minded_

“Arthur, I was angry.” Dutch slipped falling to the outcrop that Arthur stood sure-footed on. “I wasn’t in my right mind…Annabelle was murdered, do you know what that feels like?” He held his hands up, defeated, pleading for his son not to do this. Not because of him.

“Yes, my family was murdered because I wasn’t there to protect them, loyal to what matters, right Dutch,” Arthur flicked his head back, ready to jump.

“Arthur, you are not thinking straight, come away from the edge, I promise we can make this better.” Dutch reached out his hand, his eyes full of terror for his own safety. He was so close but the last step to grab him was one he was not willing to take. The couldn’t both die on this day.

“There ain’t no _we_ anymore Dutch, soon there will be no me.” Arthur edged forward, determined.

“Fine have it your way, son, jump, but I can’t promise that John won’t replace you.” Dutch recoiled at his own words before puffing his chest out, Arthur needed to fight and to have something to fight against, if being that evil force kept him alive then that was who Dutch would be. Arthur turned to him, his wild eyes rolled grey, unclear if he heard what Dutch had said. “Grieving men find comfort where they can.”

“You wouldn’t, he is only thirteen!” Arthur roared over the waterfall

“Well you will never know because your brains are about to paint the valley below.” Dutch smirked.

*****

“Where did you go?” John said sheepishly, this was the first time in months he felt confident enough to invade Arthur’s space. The camp was alive with gossip all day finding Arthur and Dutch missing.

“Nowhere, don’t worry about it.” Arthur’s voice monotone, lying on his cot, concealing his face.

“Are you ok?” John inched closer, sensing a thawing in his brother.

“Yeah,” was all he received in response, but it was more than he received in a while, it certainly wasn’t violent or angry.

“Can I sleep in here with you tonight? I’ll sleep on the floor.” Arthur lifted his arm, John hesitantly moved forward unsure if the offer was genuine. A flick of the older man’s hand confirmed it was, and he gently nestled into the space Arthur afforded him.

“Promise me if anyone ever tried to hurt you, you will let me know,” Arthur grumbled, unwilling to look at John.

“Does someone want to hurt me?” John questioned, he always cut through the nonsenses, never agreeing until he understood the context. Arthur was envious of how smart John was, not book smart but he understood people, understood trust was earned and could be quickly removed. If Arthur were as intelligent as John, he wouldn’t be here, raped by his mentor, mother and child in a grave. If Arthur saw evil like John did, he would be a better man.

“There are bad men in the world, John, it’s my job to protect you from them.” A promise made that would never be broken.

“Did bad men hurt you?” John inquired. Arthur turned to face him, his doe eyes were large with alarm, his black mop of hair dishevelled over his face.

“No, I hurt myself.” Arthur conceded he could not have the younger worrying about invisible men in the dark.

“Why?” John frowned, why would anyone hurt themselves.

“To check, I was still alive.” Arthur rolled on his side, gathering the bones of John into his large muscular arms, squeezing him tight as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself again.” John quivered as he placed his head on Arthur’s chest, aware his brother was already asleep, he could not bear to be without him.


	11. One day at the hunting lodge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather intense, hope you like it!

They roamed in silence. John arriving late, nervous, was greeted with incredulity, accustomed to the glare of his emerald eyes. In truth, he was astonished to be granted the time off. Theodore, a devoutly religious man, was his last bastion of hope, the final hurdle to fall over, anything to prevent him from making a fool of himself. Instead, the request was greeted with praise and deserving, the old man glad to grant such a gift.

John concealed his shaking hands, gripping Jezebel's reins tightly. The unruly mare in no mood for his weakness, nicking and biting to regain control of her master. He couldn't lead, didn't know where to begin. Yet, his study of Giorgio suggested John was the experienced one in this budding relationship. He prayed for something, anything, to distract him for their impending union.

"Having trouble with your horse?" Giorgio said frostily as Jezebel clattered into his mount for a second time. John sheepishly grunted, embarrassed that one again his tongue was tied, his palms sweaty, his horse mardy. He racked his addled brain for some conversation to diminish the awkwardness.

"How is your mother?" John inquired out of rigid politeness.

"Do you honestly care?" Giorgio said with his usual bluntness.

"Do you want me to care?" John's voice broke into its gravelly whine. Giorgio's provocative nature could test the patience of a saint.

"My mother isn't sick. Well not with any sort of disease that could kill her." Giorgio grumbled, holding his tongue, repulsed from disclosing a private family secret to this questionable man. John frowned, unsure why the boy was so uptight, at least he possessed parents to feel embarrassed about. Giorgio caught his doe eyes, puzzled, he shrugged as they melted his resolve, in for a penny, he thought to himself.

"She is bored, Mr Marston; life has proven to be rather unsatisfactory." His tone was remarkably low, it clearly pained him to admit the truth.

"Isn't it for everyone?" John mused a little too casually.

"She was born to a wealthy political family in the old country, the new world, full of promises and riches, has left her wanting." Giorgio almost spat the last words. John couldn't decide if the boy empathised with his mother's predicament or was outraged by her inability to accept her current position.

"People assume wealth brings happiness, it may provide comfort, warmth, nice possessions, but it can't fill the void in one's soul. She is smothered by her gilded cage." Giorgio stuttered a breath; this level of honesty was uncomfortable, that and the next words from his mouth proved contentious. "I envy the poor; they might have nothing, but they have freedom."

"Is that what you think?" John chuckled loudly, it always amazed him how wealthy people viewed those with nothing. Poverty was either deserved from some unspoken sin, or it was a romantic adventure, depending on one's persuasion. The harsh reality was unpalatable for those who had the money but lacked the imagination to understand how wretched an existence poverty was.

"You tell me, you appear free? Free to live and work where you want. Free to know yourself. To be how God made you. Is that not the case John Marston?" Giorgio spoke honestly. Although John respected his surprising candour, he felt compelled to correct him.

"I live where I want because I don't have a home. I work where I can because I can't afford not to. I know who I am because I was orphaned at eight. I have seen enough in this life to know there is no God, not one that watches over me anyhow. The freedom you speak of, it's an illusion, free to choose or no other choice." John's heart constricted at this revelation; he was painfully aware of his place in society but to reveal the extent of his inadequacy made him realise how diminished his life really was. Walking away from the gang, everything he possessed, further impoverished him. He conceded there were very few people in life that would love him unconditionally. He left several of them behind out of his own foolish pride. That same misplaced arrogance that made Giorgio envious of the poor. Pride was a rich person's sentiment, John became consumed by it because of the richness his family gave to him, now it was gone.

"What about the other thing, you're bold enough to know, and I assume, practice?" Giorgio was forward in his assertions. John's mouth dried into a craggy mess, to be asked so openly and upfront. This was it; they were not hunting today. Giorgio was intrigued by his freedom, misconstrued it as confidence, would he admit in this moment of honesty between the two.

"I had a good mentor, he protected me from my own stupidity. Believe me at times that was a very dangerous job. I can't be that man for you, Giorgio, protect you while you learn." The young man flushed crimson red to be called out so openly, for his wants to be exposed so publicly.

"It appears you possessed a gift in this man, most would treasure, why are you apart from each other?" Giorgio was deflecting, he wanted to keep the focus on John.

"Sometimes, what feels good isn't always right. I will always love him, but...." John trailed off, unsure of what he felt anymore. The rage subsided long ago. The mental affair with his cowboy still real in his mind, he was unable or unwilling to divulge it with his ineloquent vocabulary, especially to Giorgio whose malevolent disposition was likely to use it against him. If he was given a choice, would he go back? Would Arthur accept him back? Would Arthur leave Dutch? Questions asked so many times, yet the answer remained the same, no.

"Where are we going, Giorgio?" John was raw, the revealing nature of their conversation too much to bear. He needed to rest his mind from the probing, assured Giorgio felt the same.

"My father’s hunting lodge it's the next valley over, no one will disturb us there." Giorgio kicked at his young horse, creating space between them so silence could resume.

The lodge was almost as grand as the ranch house, it stood proud above the valley below. Adorned with the trophies of previous hunts. A large family could sufficiently thrive in such a place and yet it sat empty awaiting the trivial pursuits of this unsatisfied wealth of Giorgio's family.

"Come on in?" Giorgio nodded. He shuffled behind the boy trying to stop the trembling of his hands which had yet to subside, this was going to happen. John's mind rushed through every thought and fear, his face set with concern as his eyes rolled from doe to wolf and back again, leaving him bereft and exhausted.

"Would you like a beer?" Giorgio offered. John just nodded, speech alluding him. He was placed in the drawing-room, covered floor to ceiling with pristine books that no one in this family appeared to have read. A grand writing bureau, lacquered mahogany with gold inlay, sat unused as the centrepiece. The room contained two large cowhide leather chairs placed adjacent to a large stone fireplace. John perched uneasily on one of the chairs as he studied the opulence of the underused room. It always amazed John how wealth tried to link itself so closely with intelligence if to own such beautiful things would automatically provide smarts. John learnt from Theodore and Joseph, the pursuit of knowledge was a messy affair, it was not neat and tidy, clean yes but cluttered.

"This man that helped you..." Giorgio called from the other room. "Was his name Arthur?" he said as he entered the study, his swagger suggesting confidence in his question as he passed John his beer. John immediately stood, swaying uncomfortably on his sharp hips. That name had no right to be spoken by Giorgio, yet how did he know? John accepted the beer, his hands shaking from fear of being discovered required something to grip.

"Or was it Dutch?" Giorgio was playful as he said those names but his eyes were set on John, interrogating every flinch of muscle. John tried to control his reactions, as the adrenaline took hold, his body spasming involuntarily. He was an animal snared in a trap expertly set by the perplexing young man. John mentally kicked himself for his stupidity, blinded by Giorgio’s wealth and beauty completely, this was never even considered. Concerned about their liaisons, about his accurate reading of the boy's predilection, he never contemplated that the boy was lying to ambush him. John drew his gun and placed it firmly at Giorgio's temple.

"Whoa… Don't worry, killer, I am only asking a question?" Giorgio boldly placed his hand on the barrel of John's revolver and moved it to the side. "You should be more careful, found this wanted poster in Rhodes on my last visit, did you not consider changing your name when you started your new life." He removed a neatly folded piece of paper from his trouser pocket, unfolded it, revealing the bounty set on John's head.

"Wanted, Dutch Van Der Linde, Arthur Morgan, John Marston of Van Der Linde Gang, Train Robbery, Murder, $5000" John gulped, how did they know it was them?

"So, who was your mentor, or was it both?" Giorgio took a swig of his own beer. John bit back an agonising scream, how could he be so stupid, to leave himself so exposed. He was compelled not to say anything further, but the thought of anyone thinking Dutch Van Der Linde was his mentor, let along his lover was too grim. "Arthur" he barked hoping that would sate the boy's desire to torture him.

"$5000 is a lot of money Mr Marston, will purchase my poor suffering mother passage to her home." John's mind screamed, his finger twitched on the trigger of his gun, what was one more body in the grand scheme of things. He could go, leave as soon as it was over, go back to Dutch, beg forgiveness and re-join the gang where he was safe.

Giorgio cackled demonically, "Your face." He squealed through stuttering breaths. "Do you really think I like my mother that much? Sure, $5000 would be decent, but it is small change in comparison to my family's fortune." John's adrenaline was pumping so fast he could barely hear Giorgio speak, his ears thumping with his heartbeat. His eyes squinting from the strain, what was keeping this boy alive? His muscled tensed with anguish as he stopped himself from doing what came naturally, from shooting the boy

"I could have killed you"!" he roared, the anger darkening his features.

"But you didn't, my killer hesitated, deep down there is something he prizes more than freedom." Giorgio stepped forward closing the space between them. He grabbed the barrel once again, this time taking possession of the gun and throwing it onto the leather chair. "My killer wants to do perverse, filthy, sinful things to my body." He placed his soft hands on John's shirt, feeling his forming pecks flinch under his touch. John's breath hitched as Giorgio's green eyes consumed him with passion. "I want him to do those things for me."

Their lips crashed together, saliva and teeth, battling for supremacy, as they clawed at their clothes, desperate to touch flesh. This was not chaste, not the tender act of exploring John dreamed of. He was too angry to mourn the loss of their soft lovemaking. The pair grappled with ferocity, hands forming fist's pounding against each other, ripping layer after layer of clothing. John was not weak, having let Giorgio get the better of him too many times, he was determined to win. His agility and speed made quick of the slower youngster, ungraciously planting him on the wooden floor, the boy panting and naked begging for John to take him. John, blood pumping with rage, was possessed. If Giorgio wanted to experience the force of a killer, then who was he to deny him.

John pushed his union suit down past his ass, his cock bobbing in the air, eliciting a cry of delight from the boy. From his satchel he pulled out gun oil, not having time to find anything more suitable. Stroking his erect cock a few times with the lubricant, his taut, muscular frame collapsed over the boy, ready to unleash his animalistic hunger. His temper unabated, he didn't care if Giorgio got hurt. He wanted to punish him, make him understand his games were repellent. His games had consequences.

Milk white mixed with caramel as their bodies entwined. Giorgio's muscles relaxed as the shifting weight as his nefarious new plaything positioned himself between his weakened knees. His limp body juxtaposed with the fire burning deep, lighting his emerald eyes. He studied every inch of skin, scattered raised white scars framed his lustful figure. He bit his lip and rolled his eyes, anticipating the pleasure to come. His soon to be lover, his killer, was a masterpiece of broken beauty, hardship and hunger moulded into a firm slender body.

A gasp escaped his full moist lips as his hole puckered from the sensation of John's bulbous head resting at his entrance. John was hypnotised by the boy's lustful cue's as they electrified every nerve, shuddering down his spine, accumulating in his pulsating cock. It took all of his concentration not to explode. He gulped hard as the sealed ring of muscle protested against his intruding member. It tightened, if it could be any tighter, the pressure, a new sensation to John was pushing hard against him, preventing him from sheathing himself entirely.

He grunted in defeat as he shifted his weight to angle himself better, recalling his lessons from Arthur, all those years ago. Remembering the moment as if it were yesterday, curled up on his favourite furs, beers in a bucket, injuries healing, laughing. John's brow creased the intensity of the encroachment of his previous life, crushing the feelings of rage, allowing anguish to fill his heart. The struggle, so real, distracted him momentarily from his current situation. Giorgio whimpered, his ruddy face feverish, a tear descending, pooling in his dimpled cheeks. Giorgio's expression, pain and discomfort, caused by his careless penetration of the boy.

"M'Sorry" John cowered as he withdrew, aware he had done everything wrong.

"No!" Giorgio quivered. "I want this, I want you!" He grabbed his wrist, attempting to stop him from bolting. John dissolved into the desperation in his eyes.

"I have never taken someone before, I don't know what I am doing, but I know that felt wrong." John collapsed back against the chair more frustrated with himself than the situation. Was he doomed to relive every memory with the ghost of Arthur? Never engaging in a real moment again.

"Let me show you?" Giorgio pleaded. John took a breath, realising once again that he read this wrong. Giorgio was not inexperienced as he once thought.

The adrenaline turned to exhaustion, shaking from the emotion he willingly submitted to the boy. He didn't possess the energy to say no. The youngster guided him to the floor. Massaging his hands over his killer's body, abundantly aware his skittish twitches of muscle made him a flight risk. As John relaxed into his touch, enjoying the sensual tingling rejuvenating his mind, reviving his interest. Giorgio took the slapping of his awakening cock against his ass as the sign to proceed, straddling his shaking frame with his thick muscular thighs, pinning him to the floor. John groaned as he absorbed his cut tanned body sitting above him, sculpted and perfect, not a blemish or scar in sight, just those dimpled cheeks that smiled intensely back at him.

"Ready?" he said provocatively, his eyebrows flexed wickedly. John nodded, dumbfounded by the precocious boy.

Giorgio lowered himself onto John's long shaft, keening with pleasure as the full length seated deep within his tight walls, brushing against the spot. John's eyes were firmly shut as the excitement, his first experience of total penetration, overwhelmed him. Giorgio was patient, remaining still while John caught his breath. Their eyes locked, passion dissolving any sense of trepidation, as Giorgio began to gently fuck himself on John's willing cock.

John was mesmerised, a boyish smile crossed his face as this beautiful specimen rocked back and forth on his hips. In his deepest fantasies, he could never have imagined doing this with Arthur, too much respect and history between them would have made it awkward. Arthur writhing like a whore on his cock was not something his imagination could draw. Giorgio, on the other hand, was an expert whore, for all his bravado and cockiness, he worked himself hard on John's shaft. Mewling with gratitude as each gyration of his hip filled his needy hole. Giorgio was a loud whining mess; John couldn't help but make him groan more as he thrust upwards in time with Giorgio's descent.

"Am I a good boy, daddy?" Giorgio whined. The question snapped John back to reality. Once again dumbfounded by the wants and desires of this enigma.

"Tell me I am a good boy!" Giorgio commanded as he slapped against John's chest. John racked his brains, trying to fathom a reason for such an outlandish command. He could only think of Beth when she pretended to be Arthur. Did Giorgio want his father, had Edwin touched the boy? John winced as Giorgio continued to bounce up and down on him, waiting for a response.

"Where did you learn to do this?" John questioned; concern etched over his face. His own abuse immediately filling the gaps that were always in abundance where the young man was concerned. Giorgio smirked realising how inexperienced John really was.

"Every summer, ranch workers come through looking for work." Giorgio moaned as the memory of his previous liaisons, fuelled him more, leaning back to put more power into his grinding movements.

"They were older men that liked to be called daddy as they took me over a bale of hay." John gasped at the thought, his mind filled with the image of Giorgio's toned body being ridden by other men. He blushed, shamed that it turned him on.

"I know you are not that much older than I am, but I want you to be my daddy." Giorgio playfully teased. He tensed under the weight of the boy; unsure he could do this.

"Arthur was your daddy, did you never call him that?" John grimaced at the thought, he was barely able to speak his wants, let alone give each perverse name’s, darling was hard enough to hear. Did Arthur want to be called daddy? The idea was too grotesque to even consider. It was hard enough being brothers.

"Is it too much, Daddy?" Giorgio quipped gleefully, enjoying John's discomfort. "My quiet killer, can't give me praise after I have worked so hard." John was mute, this boy, who challenged him every step of the way was still finding ways to confound him. Would he ever know stability with Giorgio in his life? Having traded Arthur, the unreadable for Giorgio, the shameless. Why were men such hard work? He thought. His muscles relaxed as he giggled uncontrollably. The youngster stopped his relentless grinding of John's hips, for once he was left speechless by the uncontrollable laughter emitted from his new lover. John was winning.

Enjoying his newly discovered levity of the situation, John took control. He leaned up, crossing his legs, trapping Giorgio in his lap. He brutally gripped his hips, setting a punishing pace as he pushed him harder and harder onto his shaft. His lips found his neck, sucking and biting hard, breaking the skin. Giorgio screamed with pleasure, stimulated by such aggression, as John thrust deeper into him, angling his position to relentlessly thrust at the spot, sparking his arousal further.

"That's my boy, taking daddy's hard cock." John concealed his face in the boy's neck as he said it, feeling the shame burn his cheeks.

"Oh, daddy" Giorgio mewled, exhausted from the relentless pounding, exhilarated by the role play. John slapped his tight ass, he was in control, the boy was his. He continued to push Giorgio over the edge, their faces sweaty and hot from the exertion. The rolling feeling in his stomach, released and pushed him close to orgasm. Giorgio came first, his hot seed landing between their torso’s, screaming with joy. John wasn't far behind, his rhythm stuttered, collapsing his lips onto Giorgio's as he filled him. Their orgasms dispersed their aggression toward one another, leaving them with sensual soft touches as they deepened into an unending kiss. John gently caressed his lovers back as his limp cock fell out of his bruised ring. This was the softness he craved.

They kissed each other longingly, their lips swollen and supple, neither willing to break the moment. Loving, careful and considerate, Giorgio appeared willing to give him that. Perhaps this was what the youngster required, to be shown love, it didn't need to be brutal and provocative. Just needed to be tender.


	12. Trapped in a cage

Captain Robertson guided his Skip into the bay of Blackwater, his crew grunting from exertion. Their brows glistening with sweat as they heaved following each command from the brusque man with expert precision. Sensing alarm in their usually indomitable Captain. They spent the last hour attempting to outpace the thick soup-like fog that was encroaching. Often, the mist was no issue for the seasoned veteran, poor visibility could be overcome by years of experience navigating the seas. However, this white film, billowing across the waves, possessed an air of the supernatural as it pulsated, illuminating the waves with a tinge of luminous green. Every manoeuvre he attempted, trying to keep his men away from the deathly clutches, was thwarted. Its movements, hypnotic and unnatural enough to chill the most stoic of spines. It made the man, known for his bravery, nervous. He was too reserved to reveal such feelings on unease to his crew, but as he saw the twinkle of the dock lights come into view, he released an audible sigh of relief. Grateful for the security of land.

The local boarding house, with its warm bed, hot food and ample supply of rum called to his weary bones. That and to be secure behind four walls as the haunting spectre crept sinisterly into the sleeping streets of Blackwater. Those unfortunate enough to be awake, walked, quivering at the sight of the ghostly fog. Apprehensive that this mist was a gap between the worlds, breaking under the strain of evil that was harbouring, unseen, in its sweeping motions. A howling scream of terror tore through the town, piercing, as it ricocheted off the walls of every building. Captain Robertson drew the curtains of his boarding house room, grateful that he and his men were safe.

The bustling streets of Blackwater were alive with gossip as to who murdered the brutish Sylas Jones. His body discovered deformed, in the cold snap of dawn as the sun began to rise over the fog that lingered from the lake. A young boy, apprenticed to the Livery, raised the alarm. Poor Sylas, a once mountainous monster of a man was bent and broken, submerged in the barrel that contained the water for the horses.

The town’s folk gasped in horror as the owner of the Livery regaled them in bombastic tones about the discovery. Clearly, a man who loved attention, his rotund frame lending itself well to his theatrical display. He leapt on a soapbox to captivate his crowd of concerned onlookers. Sensing his audience enthralled, he exaggerated his performance. Complaining how a strange sense of pity sat uncomfortably in his stomach for the vicious fiend who appeared dwarfed, a childlike fear etched on his cold dead face. A chill meticulously crept up the spine of all who dwelled in the district of Blackwater. The killer, if it were a man, displayed such savagery towards the sadistic ogre, what could he do to those too weak to fight him?

Arthur smirked leaning against the pillar of the saloon as he listened to talk of devils and demons. He swore, if he reached his dotage, he would calculate how many of his killings got placed at the door of the supernatural. It irked him how his best work got credited to other beings, he vowed to fight the devil for his dues when he gets to hell.

“What’s tickling you?” Javier tipped his bowler hat to see the battered and amused face of the outlaw.

“Nothing...” Arthur tutted with disapproval before elaborating. “Always amazes me how one monster dies and these fools instantly replace him with another.” He motioned to the gaggle of town folk, still gasping and gossiping, fearful of the unknown spectre that loomed in the shadows.

“People like to be scared, Arthur, speaks to something primal in them.” A curt smile crossed Javier’s lips, suspecting his gang mate was somehow responsible for the death of Sylas Jones. He was a master of brutality concealed by his casualness, his ability to remain unseen even in plain sight. No one ever expected the killer to be stood amongst them, not even the law. When possible, Arthur enjoyed indulging in the aftermath, concealed under the pretence of indignation. He despised those too ordinary to understand the laws that governed men like him and Sylas, kill or be killed. In his death, Sylas became a lost lamb, a black sheep returned home, Arthur barely knew the man, imagined that would irritate him more than meeting his end. 

“Dutch said he left you in town to rest.” Javier offered as an explanation to why he was there. “Seeing the state of you, I can see why. I gather Mr Jones deserved his ending?”

“He served a purpose; my pride got the better of me,” Arthur admitted.

“Pride? Or anger?” Javier disputed the account given. Arthur shrugged, Javier should have been a lawman, he could sniff out bull quicker than a hound.

“You and Dutch are fighting; you think you’re discreet but I have been running with you long enough to see the signs.” Javier followed after Arthur as he retrieved Boadicea from the hitching post. Determined to say his piece on the current infliction engulfing the gangs’ sensibilities.

“It’s hard when you run with the same gang for a long time, even harder when the gang is more like family. You two push each other’s buttons, like father, like son.” Javier followed on his steed; he could sense Arthur wanted to avoid the topic. Judging by the state of Arthur’s face and the current unease in the town, it was a conversation that was becoming a necessity.

“What’s your point, Javier?” Arthur grunted uncomfortably shifting in his saddle

“I know Dutch has something to do with John leaving, that’s why you are at each other’s throats.” Javier paused for a moment; aware his words could be misconstrued as a pun. Dutch returned in the night purple bruising visible on his neck. Arthur didn’t connect the dots, so Javier proceeded, carefully. “I don’t expect you to tell me what the problem is, why he is wrong, and you are right. I just want you to know that when you have finished taking it out of the Sylas Jones’ of this world, I am here to talk.”

“Thanks, Javier,” Arthur said begrudgingly, slightly taken aback by his candour. He was aware he wasn’t easy to live with, his moods, swinging violently from rage to crippling sorrow, dictated everyone else’s spirits. Javier hesitated for a moment, letting the silence sit awkwardly between them. There was still a subject that needed discussing, but Arthur was a private man, that matter was not a comfortable one for either of them to have.

“I also want you to know...” Javier lost his gaze into the rolling hills of Blackwater, trying to hide his discomfort. “There is no judgement here, you and John, I saw that coming before any of you did. I am just sorry it didn’t work out for you both.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up on that one, it was appreciated.” His droll tone betraying an unexpected levity in the man. Arthur always had his wit to protect him when discussions shifted close to the bone.

“Come on, Arthur, he idolised you!” Javier exasperated his defence, joyfully exclaiming in his Mexican accent. “There was no way that wasn’t going to turn into love. I was never sure if it would be reciprocated. You are a hard man to read Arthur Morgan.” Javier chuckled.

They rode back to camp, content that they were secure in their friendship. Neither man was known for their long monologues full of inspirational flowery words. Still, they found a way of communicating that suited. They spoke what needed to be said using as fewer words as possible and in some ways that meant more. To have broken the moment with a few expressions of honest, introspective prose rather than deflecting or ignoring showed the intuition to each other’s needs that others so easily missed.

Without verbalising if entirely, Javier’s assessment was apparent. While he and Dutch were arguing, that schism in relations triggered by John leaving had its roots in the annals of their shared past. If Arthur found that history, the experience, too unpalatable, he would have left, or Dutch would be dead. Instead to argue, meant rather than resolving their issues they were now impacting the gang. Javier, erudite and compassionate gave the non-verbal cue of put up or shut up. Arthur pondered it, a niggling strike of conscious gnawed at his stomach. Maybe if he put up, revealed the truth, discussed the secretive relationship, the incident, he would not be the owner of a litany of broken relationships. Through his misguided belief, he was protecting everyone by not revealing the truth, he was really poisoning them with his lies. That poison seeped through every moment, touched every memory, denying those who felt the harm most, leaving them none the wiser to what caused it. Did Mary refuse to marry him because she could sense the spectre of Dutch looming large above him? Eliza and Isaac murdered because Dutch expected him to be present and available. John, John experienced the ultimate betrayal, his world sacrificed. Arthur wanted to punish Dutch for killing the boy. Such a cruel irony not yet addressed, John was alive, his act of sedition was unnecessary because John still lived.

“Arthur, are you ok?” Javier stopped his steed, sensing an uneasy change in the outlaw’s demeanour

“M’ fine” ever stoic Arthur tipped his gambler concealing his face as he shook a solitary tear that sat isolated in the duct eye.

“Tell that to your face” Javier quipped, wishing to restore the moment of unburdened joking between them. Like most moments with Arthur these days joy was fleeting. Back in camp, Arthur cleared his mind, aware of what he needed to do but refraining as the thought chewed at every nerve.

“Dutch, can I speak to you?” He stood pensive outside his leader’s tent.

“Arthur, you’re back?” Dutch ushered him in, too cheerily, keeping up appearances for the rest of camp. This was Arthur’s problem. He offered Arthur a seat, he refused, wishing to maintain the last ounces of dignity he had left. He briefly scanned the man for signs of distress, discomfort, a silk neckerchief was tied tightly around his neck. Arthur leaving a mark that was difficult to explain, luckily leaders don’t get challenged on such things.

“What do you want to talk about, Arthur?” Dutch said, ignoring the obvious reasons. Arthur chewed his lip, nervous, rolling his words in his mind, wanting to say as little as possible to get the message across and be done with it.

“I am loyal to the gang, Dutch, to what matters.” His head fell, chin resting on his chest. Those words held a plethora of meaning, shots from an arsenal of guns, could puncture any moment in time and provoke a multitude of responses.

“I know that Arthur never doubted it for a second.” Dutch squinted, he could see Arthur struggling with an inner turmoil and was anticipating a but.

“I won’t drag up the past no more, I promise, what happened between us, it’s forgotten.” Arthur shook his head, acknowledging his own words, he didn’t expect a response, not one he wanted to hear at least.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Dutch said with coy sincerity. “I will always be sorry for hurting you, promise me you won’t forget that? I would never have hurt John; it was all I could think of to stop you.” Their eyes lingered, their hardened features softening to the boyish looks they both once possessed.

He still felt like a young boy, Dutch, the first adult essential to his existence. The adult who provided life, substance, warmth and knowledge. History is a hard thing to defeat; it cannot be undone. He still felt young, as though everything was yet to happen. Although he could see it laid out, clear and unambiguous, the boy in Arthur protested. His unwillingness to accept the pain that lay before them, seeing the truth as a mirage sent as a test of their loyalty, a trick of light that could be overcome with blind obedience. Dutch a cacophony of youth and vitality, feeding his adolescent roots with ideas and principles that remained today. Nourishing his mind to allow him to develop into something different, someone better. Standing broad and proud of who he was, teaching Arthur a way to behave that would protect him from the cruel world. Dutch could never hurt them, not intentionally.

How could he tell the younger version of himself that it was all a lie, that the comfort, love and security he felt for the first time in his pathetic existence wasn’t real? To destroy the one happy memory he possessed, his childhood in the gang. Dutch in his way saw that boy too, neither of them brave enough to let go. There was once a purity, so unique in this world of darkness, it was worth holding on to, no matter how distorted it became. To view each other through the glass prism of their youth momentarily forgetting the cage they were both trapped in. That was enough.


	13. The betrayal

They christened each piece of ostentatious furniture in the hunting lodge. Lost in the exploration of lovemaking, discovering unity through connectivity. Their builds, supple, flexible albeit different allowed angles to be created in a fusion of sweat and cum. They were the clay of the masters, Donatella, Michelangelo, Bernini, cast and re-cast. Every flex of masculinity captured, never making it to marble for posterity. Fleetingly destroyed by their lust, they could not allow such acts to be captured and become tangible to anyone but themselves.

They respected the disruption of rest, appreciating their youth fashioned a swiftness to their sleep. Allowing the lovers to repeat the process, change the angle, adjust the thrust. Losing vision and sight, feeling flesh and cognisance until neither was sure they could communicate as individuals anymore. There was no stark line, no before and after, just a wave of ecstasy discovered and distributed evenly between them. It stretched in their absence, from Orchid Ranch to Theodore's pharmacy, it was invisible to the naked eye, unacknowledged by those who had never been indoctrinated into such love. John felt it, with every twitch of an overused muscle. Every strain of weight an aching reminder of the position that created such a discomfort. Every sensation of heat as his inflamed skin punished him for such rugged abuse. Such pain, kept their passions alive, until the next liaison where they would create all new positions to remember. Flexing and rolling and battling to become one everlasting connection with each other.

Their heated liaisons required sanctity; offered unknowingly by the wealth of Giorgio's family. Blind to the truth, how their life of luxury created the conditions for sin to blossom. The hunting lodge, ornate in its beauty, protected them from the world, concealing their love like saplings of spring hidden by the remnants of winter snow. John would have happily spent days with the scent of Giorgio's fluids emitting from his skin. Yet, society would confuse the aroma of love with the foulness of sin. The musk produced by their union too heady to be misconstrued as famine. Giorgio insisted after every drop was milked from their exhausted bodies, they should swim and wash and cleanse.

To John's terror, Giorgio expected him not to fear the water, _how can a gang member, a killer, be scared of water_?

"I could drown," John whined, justification in itself of his unwillingness to wade further than his ankles.

"You could swim?" Giorgio mocked as he crossed the water in a co-ordinated symmetry, gliding effortlessly, born to move amongst the waves. John furiously shook his head; this is not a conversation he was invested in repeating, reason, relenting to frustration, then violence. The gang would admit John never lost a fight when it came to water.

"How do you bathe?" Giorgio scoffed, dunking his head in the depths to wash the sweat from his gorgeous brown curls. His hair appeared different when wet, losing volume and lustre, the light unable to capture the mahogany tints of red that made him so alluring in the dry heat of the day.

"At the shoreline." John hollered, gesturing, _much as he was now._

"What if you were filthy?" Giorgio challenged, always challenging, always asking more and more questions. Treating John as a peculiar specimen that required study and probing, highlighting his hypocrisies and doubt. Accentuating his insecurities, as though his heart, well and truly placed on his sleeve, was at odds with his head, well and truly resting on his broad shoulders. Giorgio's search for understanding, delivered in jest and intrigue, unearthed very little on the surface but inside a war was raging. In his cruelly casual inquisitiveness, he hit upon the difference, the difference that summed up his former union and the breaking of that union.

Arthur and John shared the same mind, head, thought, aptitude. A philosopher would argue that was always a certainty, one having been the mentor to the other. Yet the positioning of their hearts made them different. John's, full, beating, with heat and passion, revealed readily it's fears, no matter how irrational they may seem to others. Anyone could poke fun at his absurdities but would never impact change. Like water flowing through a ravine, John was not swayed by others. Arthur's was buried deep, so deep those who didn't know him would question if it was there at all. His heart and head were synchronised, like a well-functioning timepiece. His mechanisms moved together as one, making him an expert in everything he chose to do. Within that buried heart was all the pain, torment and torture captured in scripture never to be forgotten. One heart fully exposed, would suggest a risk of being abused and broken, thrived. The other concealed for protection, felt all the pain, felt every slight, carried every scar.

John bit his lip, not sure of the etiquette, his war uncomfortable did not marry with the external peace he felt with Giorgio. If he were to share his fight, to speak of Arthur in fondness, would it foster jealousy in the boy? In coldness would invoke guilt in his own mind. Not at all, deny his existence would deny John's own. How to explain to his new significance the everlasting importance of the one before him. Arthur was not just a lover, he was a brother, mentor, protector. Too many people to be understood by one who had never experienced such a man. How to explain without eliciting feelings of obligated competition or instantly defeat their new love, the lover waving a white flag, refusing to play as it was a pointless endeavour. How to explain what broke them was precisely that, there were too many people, too many roles, it confused and complicated. His lover was never his alone. His brother shared equally with others. His mentor had his own, Dutch, and his protector who he was dependent on still, haunted him, walked beside him even now. How to describe two hearts inextricably linked for eternity beating as one, with the same blood, but one beat with cold discretion and the other with heated indignation. No to talk of Arthur was to speak of someone who could break them, destroy the artistry of their union. Giorgio was not multiple people, he was one love, stretching deep, to fulfil one purpose, making it easier to drown completely in that which was provided.

"Teach me how to swim if you want." Oh, the irony, to learn to do what scares him the most, just to protect this burgeoning love. If he had been so willing and less selfish with Arthur, would their love still be alive? It was a bittersweet thought, his relenting to learn to swim was a sign of progress. He was changing, growing, Giorgio made him bold and brave.

The arrogant youth was not the best teacher, misunderstanding John's fear as the irrational imaginings of someone who never experienced water. He remembered the first time he almost drowned. His father throwing him in a river when he was small, the Scottish brute believing John would learn through necessity was admittedly deceived. That memory, one of his earliest, confirmed two things. Water was dangerous and to be avoided at all costs. His father was not averse to putting him in unnecessary danger. With the gang, multiple times, rivers were the escape route. Jumping in to evade the wolves on his first hunting trip, another memorable occasion where water almost ended his life. The barking orders of Arthur, so forceful and authoritative cut through the shock and the thunderous crash of rapids. It kept him buoyant long enough for his brother to rescue him. To feel those large piston arms reaching out, gripping him with a furious and determined might, as though he was an object of great value. The only happiness he could recall around water was those peaceful moonlit nights, the ripples created by their bodies moving in fluid, calm motions as they washed. Resting tranquilly in Arthur's arms, legs wrapped around his torso as they shared the burden, laughing and crying. To experience such halcyon moments again would be blissful.

Giorgio didn't provide calming moments, his teaching style more from his father's school of thought. He would hold his hands as they waded out but instantly let go when John was too deep to place his feet on the ground. The ensuing panic left rumbles of laughter from the cruel lips of the sardonic boy. He would step in when John's head remained submerged. This dance of perceived learning continued for most of the summer. It was only through dogged frustration that John managed to tread water on his own. Although nerves meant he would not leave Giorgio's side, he would twitch uncontrollably reaching for the boy. Dependent on Giorgio's unreadable moods he would either be slapped away or gathered up in his arms.

John rested his head on his lover's lap, allowing the sun's warm rays to dry the last moisture from their most recent bath. Cleaned of their latest round of carnal pursuits. This summer glorious and long, each day consistently warm as the previous, left him secure in its never-ending majesty. He allowed himself to be lost in such mundane acts of observation, watching on the lake as dragon fly's skated erratically across the calm waters. Their translucent, delicate wings humming lightly over the algae froth. Nymph's dancing, their long slender body, a patchwork of blue and green swayed with pinpoint precision, hunting and hunted. The light of the sun cascaded on the luminous licks of waves as they calmly broke, small bubbles of foam wrapped around rocks was the only evidence they were there. John, no believer in God or religion, found his heaven.

"Why do you never speak of him?" Giorgio bluntly asked, without warning, breaking any semblance of ethereal peace John would proclaim to have found. His incessant need to know demanded the most focussed mind to break from any form of recuperation.

"Who?" John spoke absently lost in the intricacies of life thriving on the lake. He was awoken from his bliss by a now-familiar scowl of incredulity.

"Arthur, you don't ever speak about him. I know when he is on your mind, his name pursed on your lips, but you always stop yourself." Giorgio glared, wanting to observe every twitch of discomfort mapped on John's face. But John felt calmed by the questions, for once Arthur was not at the forefront of his mind. Giorgio, in his mockery of all things John, missed the battles, missed the war entirely. Like a historian, he was left to pick over the pieces of evidence that were left by those who could be bothered to record them. He rolled his head out of his lap, choosing to break the intimacy in case it was broken for him. Circumspect, he decided not to lie, a relationship required honesty.

"The memory of him is the only thing I have that is truly mine, the most precious thing I own. I worry if I share that memory, it will become tainted." John held his breath, what a revelation to come from the lips of someone so young to be heard by ears younger again. He watched for a scowl, a flash of anger anything to suggest that Giorgio was not enamoured by his assertive assessment of his feelings towards Arthur.

"That is a rather an intelligent dissection of your feelings, I can respect why you keep him concealed." Giorgio said, leaning for a chaste kiss of John's cupid bow lips, worried the other would take his respect as a slight on his intellect. John was left mute, such understanding from one notorious for picking at the bones, leaving no morsel untouched. The younger man watched the sullen doe eyes searched for meaning, used to his lover's unease around the moments he chose to show compassion, rare as they were.

"I understand whatever this is we share and however long it lasts, he will always be part of it." Giorgio placed a hand on John's thigh, stroking the thickness to provide him comfort. John remained mute, although a welcome development, this was not the boy he acquainted over the summer.

"Can I ask why it ended?" John chuckled, glad, more questions, his lover had not been kidnapped by some other being using his skin and flesh in a ruse to capture John for some unknown and unclear reason.

"I didn't mind sharing him, I didn't appreciate how much I would have to share him and with who." John said bluntly, confident that he was neither selfish but also not wholly yielding to all. He sat firmly in the middle, where all rational people dwelled.

"Was there someone else, a wife?" Giorgio was perplexed, intrigued, determined to roll over every stone to obtain a clear picture of this man Arthur and his meaning to John. Who were the protagonists, the leading players that turned such a love story into a tragedy?

"No, there was no wife, no other woman." John was willing to let him dig; find the nugget of truth he was set on discovering. Refraining from challenging back, learning that to wait will reveal Giorgio's angle eventually.

"Oh...so another man?" Giorgio was revelling in the find.

"Not just another man, nothing so sordid as just another man. I loved him from afar for so long, since I was twelve, never believing he was interested in loving me back. There were women in his life, before me, and I understood that he wasn't like me. I didn't think I was like me, not back then." John gesticulated his exacerbation. All those nights spent convincing himself he wasn't inverted, that his lust for Arthur was something different. To be sat explaining to his new male lover what went wrong with the previous, someone had a sense of humour somewhere.

"I didn't want him to love men, I just wanted him to love me. When he approached me that first time, with lust and want in his eyes. I was overcome with this belief that I had changed him, that my years of desire for him had permeated through and fundamentally rearranged his being. I was enough, through my obedient compliance in loving him, remaining reticent throughout, I was gifted his love." John caught Giorgio's eyes full, glacial, a tear forming from his declaration. John, who spoke little more than grunts and murmurs of dissatisfaction was suddenly awoken, speaking prose like a poet trapped in the intricacies of what it means to love. 

"The truth is, there was the Arthur that lived in my head, my perfect, gallant, sweet Arthur. The real Arthur, the one who breathes and walks and talks, could never live up to my expectations. How could he, how could he love me and not love men also." John huffed as those thoughts were diminished into reality. "That is what broke us, he was who he'd always been and I, selfish and stupid as always, couldn't accept that." He collapsed back onto the scorched grass, broken and exhausted.

"I am betrothed due to be married." Giorgio spat out, honesty, the virtue of the day. "I have been given land, a farm in Big Valley, money to set myself up, and then I am to marry." Giorgio fell back, joining John on the scorched earth. "I would have told you sooner…I thought we were having fun, enjoying my last summer." He turned to see John's sharp Adam's apple bob, trying to control himself as no words passed his cupid bow lips.

"If this means anything or as much to you as it does to me. I want you to come with me, be my farmhand, live with me... and my wife." John's lips pursed to speak, to verbalise thoughts of betrayal, of deceit, of being treated a second-best once again. He was stopped by the long forceful finger of Giorgio pressed firmly on his lips.

"Men like us don't get to live normal lives, what I am offering is the best it will ever get. I don't want you to respond or say one word because I know it will be said in anger." He pressed his finger down hard as he felt the twitch of his lips, moving, poised to upend them. His emerald eyes set firm on his wolfish glare, controlled the confession.

"I ask that you think about it, give it a mere fraction of the time you have spent thinking over Arthur." His voice trembled, a mixture of anger and pleading. "There have been times when we have made love, I have witnessed that look, I know you are thinking about him. You have a tell that is so blatant, your eyes burn, your face blushes and you look away, I have allowed that betrayal because I love you." He remained steadfast, determined, John's eyes flickered through, guilt, indignation, sorrow, betrayal. "The least you can give me is time to think about it." He moved his finger away but not his glare. John broke that for them, staring off past the lake, the emotions still rattling through his bones.

"How long?" He was monotone, controlling every spasm of disappointment.

"A week, I leave in a week." Giorgio shook, a tear descending his forlorn face as it wrestled to obtain John's acquiescence with the truth. It failed to register. John stood, fastening the last few buttons on his shirt and left.


	14. Sean's Birthday

"Come on, Arthur, you miserable bastard, it's my birthday. Come and have a drink with us." Sean cheekily howled, "If you play your cards right, I might let you hold my hand."

Arthur continued to scribble in his journal, his hand moving fluidly across the page as he drew a rare bloom he discovered in the brush outside Blackwater. He couldn't name it yet but was determined to get an accurate representation so he could ask one of the many botanists he was acquainted with. That and he still didn't feel secure around camp, especially when the drink was flowing. A semblance of shame sat in his gut, humiliation, having forced them to live alongside the monster that lay within. It was only when the music and singing started did Arthur consider a little fun might be what he needed.

"There he is, my date has arrived." Sean slurred as the warmth of the fire illuminated his presence.

"Mr McGuire, the only man stupid enough to miss his own birthday party." Arthur swayed confidently on his loose hips.

"What ya talking about Arthur?" The Irish fool dared to ask. Arthur's knuckles landed squarely with Sean's jaw, an audible gasp leaving the gang. They watched as the hearty Irish man wobbled for a second. He appeared to absorb the full force without so much as a whimper, before collapsing into a crumpled unconscious mess.

"Arthur." Dutch chuckled his reprimanded, failing to conceal his amusement.

"What?" Arthur said dryly, always acting innocent. "He was asking for it. Besides, he might come around in time for the cake." He picked the scrawny Irish man up, abruptly dropping him to the ground and taking his seat on the log.

"What's a man got to do to get a drink around here." Arthur hollered. Mary-Beth honoured his request, passing him a half-drunken bottle of whiskey. He nodded an acknowledgement, his eyes apologising as they momentarily held hers. He'd been a poor friend, allowing her to join the gang under a pretence. Only for the ruse to unravel in days leaving him forlorn and her destitute. The others were not the warmest of folks to be around, especially if you'd been caught lying. Her heart was so big underneath her ruffled blouse, he could sense her loneliness and her fear.

The embers of the fire danced around the light-heartedness of the drunken family. They sang, laughed, regaled each other with stories of past juvenile delinquencies, jollity and dreams. The newest member of the gang, Mary-Beth, sat enthralled by the tales. Enjoying the stories of Arthur and John most, begging for more as soon as they ended. The family not willing to forget their missing son, his accolades and incidents always provided joy. They enjoyed them too much to spare Arthur's blushes. Not that it mattered any, the warming cuddle of whiskey wrapped around his body, he was glad to remember. Their adolescence was full of stupidity, idiocy, they were a right pair of morons in the eyes of those who loved them most. Thankfully not much had changed in eight years.

"Would you care to dance, Miss Gaskill." Mary-Beth giggled, slightly off-balance with the drink as she coyly accepted Dutch's hand. They began properly, set apart, but as the music continued, they grew closer, laughing as he dipped and twirled her. Arthur tried not to watch but couldn't look away, the mating ritual of Dutch on display like a peacock presenting its plumage to an unsuspecting hen. He didn't speak on the matter, the flames of the fire illuminating the darkened thoughts that formed in his mind. His deliberations consumed him like thunderous clouds flowing over the plains waiting for the first fork to hit the ground. He took focussed gulps of his whiskey aware the effects would make him loose, quick to anger, under the slightest provocation.

To everyone else, he appeared much as he had been since John left. Surly, objectionable and quiet, present but far away in with his thoughts. They continued to dance and partake in the fun of the celebrations, ignoring him for fear of upset. As evening crept into midnight and beyond, he remained planted in his seat, observing, patiently waiting to intervene. It would come, always did, that moment when Dutch believed everyone was too tired or too drunk. He would make his move like a rattlesnake poised and hypnotic, swaying rhythmically until the strike of teeth puncturing skin stirs the intended victim. Inevitably, as he knew the back of his own hand, that moment arrived at quarter past two. The old man was getting slower, his looks diminishing required more lubrication to be set on attractiveness. He didn't witness them depart, just saw the crack of the tent door flap slightly, light grow, revealing two shadows, one sat the other standing.

"S'cuse me one moment." Arthur politely excused himself, pointedly making his exit an event to be watched. Those more astute and knowledgeable observed with bated breath, aware of what was coming. Their eyes, drawn to his form as it moved loosely but with purpose across the camp.

"What's going on here," Arthur said jovially, his humour a way of disarming any friction. As he poked his head into Dutch's tent.

"Nothing, Arthur." Dutch protested, his demeanour betraying his thoughts like a child caught with his hand in the sweet jar. He sat a little too close to the girl, he hands inappropriately placed near to her knee.

"Don't look like nothing," Arthur smirked as he said it, capturing Dutch's eyes in a sharp glare. "I should probably walk Miss Gaskill back to her tent, don't want her falling over drunk in the dark." His tone deepened, controlling, sultry, but threatening. Arthur reached his hand out to Mary-Beth, who was crimson with embarrassment.

"I am quite capable of finding my way back to my tent." She cried out; shame laced with anger.

"You should go dear, Arthur is right, don't want harm to happen to you." Dutch relented, Arthur his compliant right-hand man, the enforcer of the gang, would not be swayed on certain actions he deemed inappropriate. Although subtle, the signs were there, the man wasn't playing. Mary-Beth was incensed, crudely, her night had hit an abrupt end just as it was about to get good. She flung herself past Arthur, elbowing him for good measure as she left Dutch's tent and headed for the woods in a sulk.

Arthur returned to the fire, picking up a beer on his way past. Convention dictated he should have gone after the young girl. Still, he was sure what was in those woods was not as dangerous as the situation she willingly entered into with Dutch. That and the Seventeen-year-old for all her bluster wouldn't stray far from the protection of the camp.

"It's been bubbling, didn't know if you had seen it or thought you didn't care." Hosea mused over Arthur's intervention.

"Yes, well, I have seen it now, and it stops." He took a swig of his beer.

"I would happily follow that man to the end of the world but doesn't mean I like all of him, his appetites always get the better of him, she is just a girl." Hosea lamented his oldest friends' behaviour, if only he knew the truth, poor girl, poor boy, poor Arthur.

"What a mess, John should never have invited her." Arthur coughed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to change the focus. Dutch's appetites were well known, didn't need in-depth analysis with so much liquor flowing. Arthur still insecure in his feelings, lacked control, secrets slip out in moments of weakness.

"There is one solution" Hosea cocked a knowing brow towards his son.

"No," Arthur said forcefully, having been raised by the old man, seen him as a father, he knew exactly what Hosea was alluding to.

"Come on, Arthur, its nature, two silverbacks fighting for dominance over a woman. The old master and the young pretender. You are the only one who can lay claim over Dutch, I am sure I know which one Mary-Beth would prefer?" Hosea had gifted Arthur his love of nature, teaching him about herbs and plants, animals and hunting. The only thing the old man failed to give him was a love of fishing that required too much time being quiet, it was a thoughtful unburdened mind that could commit to fishing. It was too loud a pursuit for Arthur, the voices angry, shouting into the abyss of his mind. To reason nature, the dominance of alpha males as an excuse to bed Mary-Beth was unbecoming of his distinguished father.

"No!" Years of practised debate taught Arthur monosyllabic responses were the best way to win against his astute and wiry man. Slick and sly when a thought pressed in his mind.

"Fine, then she is our new Annabelle." Hosea crowd, watching the ire rise in his son's eyes,

"No, she ain't, I will kick her out of camp before I let that happen." Arthur declared, not willing to relent, it was not his place regardless of Hosea's perspective on the matter.

"Would it not be easier to invite her into your bed?" He poked again.

"No one has ever had an easy time in my bed." Arthur chortled, goading the old man to accept defeat.

"Arthur," Hosea cackled at the indiscreet revelation. Arthur took his leave; it was time to find Mary-Beth. Apologise, and return her drunken shell back to her own cot, where she could sleep the evening's festivities off, alone.

"Mary-Beth! Mary-Beth." He shouted. A whimper alerted him to her presence, crumpled in the debris of the forest floor.

"There you are, crying" He rolled his eyes in expectant surprise, joining her on the ground where she balled like a baby denied their favourite toy.

"It's not fair Arthur" She mumbled angrily through her hands, attempting to conceal the tears that were so obviously falling "I can't have John; I can't have you, and now I can't have Dutch." Arthur huffed at the statement, only a primary and inexperienced mind could determine romance as a list of men in the vicinity to be worked through until one relinquishes. Men were supposed to be the cold ones in their pursuit of lust. While Mary-Beth displayed all the delicacies of a young woman, her appetites appeared bolder than a man's.

"Mary-Beth, you are a kid, you shouldn't be so invested in trying to lie with a man, what's the rush? The question was rhetorical, who was he to decide the age of readiness, he and John were well into their stride by the age of seventeen. Perhaps he was mistaken for thinking girls were somehow different. He assumed they didn't have the same urges and therefore started much later and generally with one man. "It will happen when it happens and believe me there are a damn better man out there than me, John and Dutch."

"Well, I have never met one." She sniffed as the fluids emitted from her face, thankfully the darkness concealed the full horror of her puffy eyes, redraw nose, saliva ridden mouth.

"Good God woman where you been looking Siska Island?" Arthur raved in disbelief, the girl in her emotional state was either being ridiculous or trying to play the angle of pity, he wasn't in the mood to bite.

"Dutch is kind and handsome in his own way, he has been nice to me while you have been drowning your sorrows, ignoring me." Mary-Beth got up from the ground, running her hands down her dress to remove the dirt. She fixed herself properly, placing her ruffles that appeared carelessly positioned into the correct location. Arthur could feel her resolve harden, his intervention not shaking her thoughts of impropriety towards Dutch. His apology, not outwardly given, was not achieving the aim of keeping the girl safe; apparently, it was her own self that she needed protecting from.

"Dutch is like that with everyone until he gets what he wants." Arthur's tone changed, the mocking southern twang falling to sober assessment.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She rattled, having witnessed the forthright tone of Arthur' serious demeanour only a few times she wasn't willing to bend. Mistakenly identifying it as a tool in Arthur's arsenal to ensure compliance to his way of thinking. She was not stupid enough to fall for it, these flippant statements would require justification, evidence to make her shift her resolve away from Dutch.

"Exactly what it means, he lays the charm on thick, gets you right where he wants you, then leaves you hanging trying to reason with what just happened." Arthur swiftly rose to his feet, catching the girl's irritated eyes in the light of the moon. "Believe me there is another side to that man, a side I don't want you to see." He delivered the last words with a cold sincerity he hoped she would recognise as truth.

"Oh Arthur, you are such a hypocrite, first John, now Dutch, you act like your protecting me, but really you are jealous." Like a wild cat's claws digging into its prey, she dispatched Arthur ruthlessly, turning on her heel to leave him.

"Now wait a god damn minute." He roared, frustration getting the better of him he grabbed her soft milky white arm, barely enough flesh to conceal the bone. They struggled, her slender frame no match for his bulk was waved around like a rag doll held carelessly in the hand of an unrelenting child.

"You don't think I have ears, I heard you that night, the night John left, you and Dutch were... If you kept in your pants, John would still be here. We would both be happy." The knockout blow she suspected; a truth revealed could not be placed back in the box. Arthur's warrior kicked in, learning, should have done this with John when he delivered a similar blow.

"Really…" Arthur's eyes darkened as he pushed his weight firmly against the now frozen Mary-Beth. "Did you hear us the night he knocked me out cold and raped me, did ya! He pushed her hard against a tree, she staggered, shocked by the force he wielded, the words he spoke.

"Were you there when I was bleeding so badly that I had to get ten stitches to make it stop, were you?" Flecks of spit landed on her cheek as he revealed the other side of Dutch with force.

"You think you can tell me how I feel, little girl, there are things here you will never understand." His eyes were steel grey, almost luminous as they penetrated deep into her terrified gaze. This was a side to the man she suspected all had seen, but very few were on the receiving end.

"Arthur, you're hurting me" She whimpered a plea. Seconds of intensity passed before his eyes filled once again with warmth.

"M'Sorry" He released his grip, his head rolled to his chest, ashamed. Leaving Mary-Beth in astonished silence, he retreated into the deep woods, the silver moon incapable of penetrating through the dark foliage left it blackened, dead. He moved quicker, trying to outpace his shame, dazed by his admission. Had this been building, the signs there, the interventions of his nearest and dearest, John leaving. There was a poison in him, it darkened every drop of blood that pumped in his veins. Was this the point that the letting began, an antidote administered? Was this the point that the poison took its final push, consuming what little was left, was he dying? He fell to his knee, biting back the tears that failed to come, his chest heaving from his flight was the only sign of his discomfort. When did it get this bad, that the darkness stopped him from expression, even with himself?

"Is it true?" Mary-Beth called to him, remaining a safe distance, scared the revelation put her own life at risk. Arthur was a private man, he didn't share, what did he do to those he revealed too much to. Those who got too close.

"In the short time you have known me, have I ever lied." He was calm, calculated, sure that he was a good man. A good woman like Mary-Beth could see that, break the fear that sat within her and see him for who he really way. His words still rattled tinged with emotion; he was trying hard to control.

"Why, why do you stay?" Her shrill voice needed clarity, to have something so abhorrent happen, the perpetrator someone who Arthur loved dearly. She would have run, run far away,

"I don't know." Arthur tipped his head; he didn't understand himself half the time, but then he remembered: "To protect John."

"O Arthur" Mary-Beth collapsed forward capturing his unyielding bulk in her slender arms,

"Come on now, I should be the one whose crying, it happened to me after all." Arthur wrapped his arms around her small frame, shaking as tears of sincerity fell across her face. "I never wanted you here, you are too pure for all this dishonesty. If it were up to me, I would pack your bags tomorrow and get you far away. But if you do insist on staying, it has to be by my lead and no one else's." Arthur was firm but soft with the broken Mary-Beth.

"I ain't leaving you, Arthur. How could I?" She protested, cupping her soft hands around his chiselled face.

"If you ain't noticed, I am big enough and ugly enough to look after myself, and I have seen you shoot, I don't need another kid putting my life in danger, just got rid of John." He chuckled.

"Shut up you big fool, I ain't staying to protect you. I am staying because deep down, you need to be loved. It might be platonic given your persuasions, but you will be loved, unconditionally, and rightfully deserved." Her declaration was sweet and stupid; he huffed in annoyance but could feel his heart melt a little to her determination.

"I'm the fool! What seventeen-year-old wants to unconditionally and platonically love an old invert like me? I have had plenty of chances at happiness, squandered them, don't do the same." He was just as prepared to put her off.

"Fine, then I will stay until my prince charming comes over the hill and sweeps me off my feet." She relented.

"Ok, as long as your prince charming ain't an escaped convict from Siska because then I would have to shoot him." He smiled, picking her up from the ground and carried her back to camp. "Mary-Beth, no one else knows, keep it that way." She nodded her agreement and passed out in his arms.

"She alright," Grimshaw gently inquired as Arthur returned to the campfire.

"Yes, she's fine, drink just got the better of her." Arthur warmed his hands by the fire, it was witching hour, where the night was darkest and its coldest. The camp was alive with the snores and breathing of comatose drunkards sleeping off their sins. Crickets and cicada's chirped as the fire crackled. This was peaceful, he and Susan hadn't shared a moment like this for a while.

"And the other thing." Susan cautiously asked.

"She agreed to stay away from Dutch if that's what you're getting at. Managed to convince her without having to mark my territory. Get me Charles Darwin, this Gorilla is evolving." They laughed together quietly.

"It's good to see you back to yourself" She retorted

"I am far from that" He admitted, warmly catching her gaze, the sorrow of their loss sat deep within them.

"I need to know something, Arthur?" She huffed, worried which way this will go.

"Everyone wants a piece of me tonight, think you deserve the biggest piece of all." He nodded his acknowledgement.

"When are you going to find him, I need to know he is safe." She quaked, she didn't blame Arthur for his leaving, John was always flighty. She didn't blame Arthur for his reaction, the older still losing himself in his pain, managed each time to eventually pull himself back up. She did, however, blame him for his continued absence, Arthur didn't even try to look for him, try to find out where he was.

"He's safe." Arthur conceded, seeing the stern look of anger building in her face decided to tell the truth.

"You know where he is?" Her jaw dropped in shock.

"What?" Arthur chuckled, always amazed that those he loved could think he was so callous and uncaring when they knew the truth better than anyone.

"I've kept that boy alive since the day he joined us, even when he was determined to get us both killed through his stupid, moronic decisions. God knows how many times I have almost drowned, been eaten by wolves, trampled by horses, knocked out, shot at because of John bloody Marston." Arthur rumbled with the memories. "I don't care that he is angry or that I am angry, do you really think I am going to let that idiot roam the world alone? he would have been dead within the day,"

"Oh, Arthur thank you," Susan leant forward and kissed him on the cheek,

"Enough of that got my reputation to think about." He blushed slightly, if there was one person who deserved happiness in this whole sorry mess it was Susan Grimshaw.

"Next time we are close by I will check on him myself, I promise." They both sat silently watching the darkness fade as the pale blue of dawn, icy and cold, made way for the sunrise.


	15. A New Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Christmas is almost upon us, thought I would do a few early releases, chapter today and a chapter tomorrow. That and I can tell you are itching for them to be together again. :) Not yet though, promise soon.

The dam was filling, the sounds muffled couldn't penetrate passed the water into his ears. His mouth submerged, unable to speak. His sight fading, the lines welled with tears. He took a deep breath, immersed himself fully. Bubbles of air passed his line of sight, calming him. The dam would not break, not this time. He’d grown, previous events left him drowning, flailing in a rush of rapids that tore everything from him. This time he would swim, embrace the pain of his heart breaking. If he could survive Arthur, he could survive anything.

The first rush of intensity passed; he was defiant against the potential breach. His structure still stood solid, directing the intense waves of emotion, he would not break. He dared to think on the betrayal, aware another push could send him over, could deliver cracks he didn't want, but his mind wouldn't relinquish. He didn't feel guilty leaving Giorgio behind, why should he? Lied to again by a lover, why was it always his job to share? He scratched his way back to St Denis, Jezebel docile as she followed her beleaguered owner, they kicked at the dirt together. He had no urgency to return, the Sister and Theodore both had a sixth sense when it came to his tempers. While he harboured the secret of his newly formed relationship with the Rancher's son, they would speak to him in ways that made him feel foolish and spoilt. They tried to instil empathy and understanding. Who were they to provide such insights? They who built their walls higher, thicker and long ago. They who had more resources to begin with, he started with nothing, will end with nothing.

Lost in his thoughts, he failed to acknowledge the pristine black carriage with well-groomed shires, waiting patiently for their owners the Jameson's. He was almost sat on it before the mental cogs wrenched to this new threat. He quickly hitched Jezebel to her post and raced up the stairs, slamming through the double doors to be welcomed by a scene of civility. Bone china cups and saucers, a tea-pot and a plate of biscuits, how quaint.

"Ah Mr Marston, glad you could grace us with your presence," The Sister eloquently said, hiding her pure tone of sarcasm from the Jameson's. John bullishly closed the door, snorting with angst at their return.

"Why were you waiting for me?" He frowned, his skin crawling with expectation, unwelcome news. He searched the room, trying to spy Rose, one glance would confirm his fears but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Please sit-down John." The Sister patted the vacant seat next to her, reaching forward and pouring a cup of tea for him.

"Hello, John." The plump Mrs Jameson, with her unflattering ruffled dress said. He didn't respond, he was tight-lipped waiting for them to reveal their true intentions. Civility was not his focus, the truth was. She coughed delicately at his uncouth ways, pressing a hand to her husband who leant forward preparing to school young John in propriety.

"We are here today to complete the paperwork to adopt Rose." She looked up at him, her hazel eyes were cautious as the locked onto John's wolfish glare.

"No," he said as if his word held any weight in the matter.

"Now John, Mr and Mrs Jameson know how close you and Rose are, that this separation will be painful for you both." The Sister placed her cup down, reached for both of his callous hands.

"No, Ill adopt Rose, she can stay with me, I will get us a place, we will be fine." He rattled everything he thought to say that would convince them to not take Rose.

"John! You are a young man, you are not in any position to bring up a child, let alone one as challenging as Rose. You should be out exploring the world, free, there is plenty of time for you to settle down." The Sister was rational and calm as she delivered the much-venerated wisdom that drove John to despair.

"She isn't challenging, you just don't understand her like I do!" He whined, broken and exhausted, first Giorgio, now Rose, was everyone going to leave him? He coughed, an uncomfortable stone sat in his throat, he had been alone before, he couldn't do it again.

"John, if you were really interested in raising that girl, you would spend every minute with her. You have spent the summer either working or out galivanting, as you should a boy of your age. But Rose needs more than that, more than you can offer." His throat stung with incredulity. He didn't realise he was under such scrutiny, that his actions made him lesser. If he'd known every moment should be spent with Rose, that would secure her presence with him, he would never have submitted to the lustful Giorgio. He kicked the table in frustration, eliciting a bark of poor manners from Mr Jameson. He was not in the business of being disciplined by this wealthy stranger. He bullishly slammed the door once again. Setting a pace, he left, ran away from those he now detested more than any other, those who tried to take his Rose away.

His body twitched; every muscle skittish as the rage pumped through his veins. He wandered the streets of St Denis, searching for a release. He was incensed that he played the game, been law-abiding and proper, he did everything that was expected of him, kept a job, didn't drink or steal. John had played the game of polite society, and all he got for his troubles was betrayal, cruelty wrapped up in a pleasant smile. At least with the gang, he knew where he stood, spotting a swine a mile away because they behaved like one. Not like these insidious, evasive, polite brutes who pretended just long enough to let his guard down, they have robbed him blind. Robbed him of Giorgio, robbed him of Rose, robbed him of his true self. John settled at the docks, watching the ships roll in from the estuary, their horns calling like monsters from the deep. He thought it would bring peace, but his eyes kept flickering towards the east, the dens of inequity that littered the shoreline.

*****

Theodore arrived promptly at 8 am every morning. Preferring to have a good hour of preparation before opening the door to his first customer at 9 am. He struggled to align his key with the lock, as he did, he noticed the door slightly ajar. Perplexed he called out, had Joseph arrived early? The shop was exactly how he left it the night before, no sign of robbery or other nefarious acts. Theodore promptly closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock to grant him some semblance of security. Reaching the back room, he found his intruder, unconscious and snoring on the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief, his heart fluttering in panic more than he realised, he kicked John waking him from his slumber.

Theodore filled the kettle, placing it on the gas ring. Cleared away some of the litter that lay around John, a clink alerted him to a half-empty bottle of laudanum as it met with an entirely empty bottle of whiskey.

"I didn't take any of it." John yawned, "The laudanum, I mean, the whiskey is all I had." Theodore pulled up a small stool hovering above the mess that was John Marston.

"You ask the temperance movement they would treat them just the same, that was a nice bottle of whiskey you carelessly devoured." He said.

"I will replace it," John said gruffly, embarrassed to be found in such a state. It was through his longing glances at the docks he realised the signs; his nervous twitching fuelled by the rage that sat just beneath his skin, bubbling. The flashing images of the faces of those who betrayed him. This was the mood that put him in danger, that took away his reason and left him with irrational and deadly responses. His dam remained intact, but he couldn't swim forever, drowning was just as fatal. Having never succumbed to this temper without Arthur. He recalled all the danger the outlaw saved him from. The situations he got himself into, that he wasn't able to get out of, without Arthur. He ran away from the whore houses that catered for his predilection, the drug dens providing escapable bliss. He ran until his lungs were raw, his pace only diminishing when his legs gave way to cramp. He screamed; the rage still bubbling would not abate with his fatigue. He still needed to vent his anger, dull his pain, the safest place was Theodore's Pharmacy.

"How would you like to do this Mr Marston, I can pretend that I don't know why you are in this state, we can dance around for a bit, lie to each other or we can cut to the chase, have an honest conversation?" Theodore clapped his hands, awaiting the young man's response. John glared at him, of course, Sister would have mentioned their last interaction, that he was missing, they probably spent the night looking for him.

"I am losing Rose…" He said, "And a good friend…. has told me he is to marry, leave St-Denis." John pulled himself up, resting with his back against the counter, a small wretch of bile rose up past his throat, leaving a sickly burning sensation in its wake.

"I see, so you are treating these two occurrences as a loss, a tragedy, befalling you at the same time." Theodore nodded politely, pouring them a cup of coffee each before returning to his perch.

"Before I decided on the administration of medicine as my profession, I was interested in psychology, the study of the mind. It is a fascinating subject, teaches you about human behaviour, why people act the way they do to certain events." Theodore handed John the coffee, "You, John Marston, are treating this current event as a loss when really it is merely a change. You do that because every major change in your life to this point has been caused by a loss, you are conflating the two when really they are quite separate." John sipped his coffee, scowling more from confusion then any offence Theodore's rather apt interpretation might have given.

"What I am saying is those who haven't experienced your life, the losses you have felt. They would be happy for Rose that she has gained security and a loving home. Happy for your friend because he has found someone to love and love him back in the eyes of God. Most people would greet these events with gifts and celebration." Theodore finished his coffee and waited for the whirling cogs in John's mind to slow to rational thought.

"I am broken, not like other people, I think we both already knew that?" John set his judgement against himself, a little harsher than Theodore had intended.

"You are not broken, everything that has happened to you at this point has made you a fine young man, one any parent would be proud of. What you need to learn is sometimes it is better for you and my bottle of whiskey, to see things from a different perspective. Do something you have never done before, embrace the change, see it as positive and exciting, rather than something to be feared." Theodore placed his empty coffee cup on the side and left John to his thoughts.

John skulked back to the rectory, the whiskey gnawing at his insides. He apologised to the Sister, curtly. She could sense forgiveness was not yet blossoming but took the politeness of his apology with good grace. He wrapped Rose up in his arms, her ragged blond hair tumbling across his shoulders as they retired to his bed to sleep the rest of his hangover off. Once awake, mainly from her kicking displeasure at sleeping during the day, he read to her a new book, Ugly Duckling by Hans Christian Anderson. It made John cry as he told the story of the little duckling who was abused only to turn into a beautiful swan. He kissed her head, wishing for her a future full of beauty and happiness, everything he never had.

*****

The week rolled by in a haze, the colours were bleak, grey even when the sun was shining, and birds singing. He was stuck, stuck in a life he chose for himself not realising those who led to that choice still had their own paths, ones which evidently didn't include him. He had confidently raised his flag on the wrong side, now the war was reaching its climax those he loved were defecting. Theodore tried to counsel his further, but his thoughts were drowned out by the sense of loss. John not yet mature enough to understand. He could allow this change to happen, or he could change it for himself. His mind clouded with ill-judged thoughts, he could kidnap Rose, he and Giorgio could run away together, be a family. How long before they were lynched for living in sin with a child. He could take Rose, go back to the gang, live the outlaw life together. Dutch would never accept a six-year-old in the gang, not even sure he would be welcomed back. He could leave pretend this part of his life never happened, go and be the outlaw he was always meant to be, alone. The stern faces of Theodore and Sister echoing that was not the right choice. He could die, why not, he almost died so many times, better to control his own death than have someone execute it for him.

John reached under his bed, pulling out a small wooden box. Not much to show for nearly twenty years of life. Upon opening, he found his Onyx watch, winding it, the ticking sound crescendo around the room, it appeared a grander clock was making the noise. This watch, once so precious, had been absent from his life. The anger towards the giver, preventing him from loving it as he once did. He rubbed his thumb across the embossed figures, the wolf and stag set under the same silver moon. This watch, recorded time, before and after, who he was then and who he was now, could it show him who he is yet to be?

"That is a fine piece you have there, very peculiar?" The fence said as his eyepiece scanned the Onyx watch.

"How much?" John nervously said, kicking himself for revealing the urgency for which he needed the money.

"I'll give $20", the fence said

"$20, it is worth more than that, and you know it!" John shouted his frustration.

"It probably cost more than that, yes, but who is going to buy it with an engraving on, it is personal, high personal value low general worth." The fence sneered.

"$30 is what I want!" John said forcefully

"$20 is all I willing to offer." The southern twang raked assuredly.

"$30 is all I am willing to take." They locked eyes, time was John would have his gun pointed at the man, would take all of his dollars and keep the watch. Time was a different life and a different John, but the fence didn't know that.

"$25?" he quaked slightly from the intensity of John's wolfish glare

"Done, a pleasure doing business with you." John's gravel voice clawed as he took the $25, each already assigned a duty. He remained long enough to see it placed behind the glass display counter, no longer his watch, the most precious thing he once owned.

“There you are, come on, you almost missed saying goodbye!” The Sister shouted at him.

“Please Mrs Jameson, can I have a moment?” John reached for the woman’s hand in the hope she would extend her civility to him once again. Not that he expected her to, he was shamed by the rudeness he displayed on both their previous meetings.

“I have purchased Rose a serial subscription to a dime novel for children, she will receive a copy once a month. Would you mind reading them to her? We loved to read, and I know it brings her comfort. Also, I bought this paper and pen, can you write to me and let me know how she is doing?” John said. He felt exposed, revealing parts of himself he preferred to keep hidden, especially from strangers.

“That is mighty sweet of you, John,” She said, receiving the gifts. “You didn’t have to; Mr Jameson and I can afford books and paper.”

“I gathered, but these are from me, I have the same subscription to the same dime novels so we can read them together even though we are apart.” He scratched the nape of his neck, nervous that his request would be forgotten as soon as they began their new lives together.

“That is such a generous thought, there is a fine young man buried under all that edginess. Rose is lucky to have you in her life. I will ensure you get a letter once a month.” John hugged her, which surprised them both. She smelled of lavender, homely and sweet, is that what mothers smell like? He thought to himself as he held on for slightly too long. Rose pulled at his trousers, her way of getting the attention she craved. He picked her up in his arms, probably for the last time, if they ever saw fit to see each other again she would be the size of John if not slightly petite and slender.

“You listen to me” He stared into those big blue pools, they welled up with tears. “I am always going to be there when you need me, I promise. My job is to protect you and keep you safe, you just got to let me know when I am needed, you here me.” He embraced her in an honest hug, memories flooding back to when he was younger, and Arthur swore to protect him. If he could be as good as Arthur was, he would see himself as succeeding. She bawled, cried and kicked as Mr Jameson took her from John’s arms, placing her in the carriage with Mrs Jameson. If this was a positive start to a new life, Rose didn’t see it that way. John kept smiling and waving, hoping she would understand, he didn’t abandon her, she was going to a better place, she was better off without him.

“I am proud of you, John, that was a good thing you did.” She placed her hand in his.

“Thank you, Sister, thank you for everything, don’t think I could have survived the last year without you.” He squeezed her hand, this was it.

*****

"Ah Mr Marston, it has been a while, it is good to see you have you come to wave Giorgio off?" Edwin shook Johns hand as he continued to conduct proceedings. The ranch was full of wagons being loaded by hands. Giorgio would not be going without; half of St Denis finest shops must be empty with the amount of furniture that was being piled up.

"Well…ah" John didn't know what to say, had Giorgio not told his father of the offer of a job, he would have suspected a mention at least.

"John?" Giorgio's warm caramel voice broke slightly with surprise.

"Hi!" was all John could think to say, the anguish eclipsed as he once again saw the beauty of his lover radiate from the unprecedented joy his arrival brought. Giorgio too was breathless, the last week he mourned the loss of John believing they would never see each other again. Their wordless gaze was broken by the cough of his bewildered father.

"Father, I have offered John a job, helping on the farm." Giorgio quickly intervened, aware they stared too long and too lovingly for such an open reunion.

"Why that is fantastic news, you need a natural like John here." Edwin said once again smacking John on the back, a little too forcefully." Not afraid of a bit of hard work, good to have you onboard Mr Marston." Edwin shot a sly glimpse towards John as a sense of dread washed over him, suspecting this new union was not completely business orientated. John chocked slightly on the awkwardness.

"Well done son, we will make a businessman of you yet." Edwin hugged the boy; it was painful to watch neither seeming comfortable in their bond.

"We better get going, I will write to let you know how we are getting on," Giorgio said, mounting the cart. John winced at "we" if Edwin was half as shrewd as he made out, their small interaction may have revealed more than it should have, more than either of them wanted to. As they left Orchid Ranch, the leaders of a caravan of six carts they were silent. It was only free and on the open road did they speak a few words to each other.

"Didn't think you were coming?" Giorgio scolded; his thoughts now secure, wanted to punish John for putting him through such an unnecessary upheaval.

"I weren't, but then I thought what the hell, don't know where this will end up but I would like to see for myself." John was casual, this was not a grand reunion of loves, that would come later. No, this was scoring points, drawing lines, they hurt each other, the spoilt rich boy, the down and out hustler. Both needed to vent cruelty.

"Daddy appeared happy?" John licked a malicious smile as he said it

"Don't… it's different, and you know it." Giorgio huffed, unwilling to blur the lines.

"I don't pertain to know much about anything anymore. Just going where the road takes me. I know I can't stay no more." John felt the pull, he was walking away once again, this time it was far away. The strings that held him close now finally breaking, the gang were unlikely to find him. Every move, every decision made the bonds weaker, their faces faded. Would there be a point in the future where he could walk past one of them without realising, time, age, passing like a river flowing out of the estuary and into the sea. They were now set on different paths; this was not a year away from the gang to let off steam. This felt like forever, John unsure what cataclysmic event could ever bring them back together. Giorgio placed his hand in John's, squeezed it for reassurance, this was the start of their journey, together.

*****

Dr Theodore Scott arrived at 8 am every morning, preferring to spend an hour in his own company before his customers arrived. He unlocked the two locks that now secured his door and entered, confident that his fortress had not been breached by an unwanted guest the night before.

He headed for the backroom to make his morning coffee. To his surprise sat on the sideboard, was a bottle, single malt whiskey imported from Scotland. Next to it a note:

Thank you, John M.


	16. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the 2nd Chapter, for all those who observe have a Merry Christmas!

St-Denis hadn't changed. The toxic clawing smog sat baying, smothering the inhabitants. A breeze from the sea carried it above the clouds, allowing the besieged occupants a glimpse the crystal blue sky's that lay beyond the city. Arthur felt the yearning the pull to pastures beyond the grandeurs of the homogenised wealthy homes, preened and ornate, perfection concealing the rotting flesh of its decaying elderly residents. He despised the north of the city most, suspicious eyes watching his every move as he wandered without perceived purpose. He played his role scrutinising every property with glee. It was the swift stern slap from Mary-Beth that stopped his mischief.

"You are spending too much time around Grimshaw." He grumbled. "Here, go and buy yourself something fetching from one of the tailor shops. Want you looking your best for Prince Charming." He pulled a thick wad of bundled money from his satchel.

"That is mighty generous of you, but I have to question such generosity?" Her eyes squinted with suspicion. "Last time you were here; you were frequenting less salubrious places."

"Why, when I agreed to be loved unconditionally, I didn't realise I was inviting you to replace my mother." He chortled, his thick drawl making all the more handsome. "I have things to do, people to see, gang business, nothing involving my own debauched needs, I promise." He held his hands up in defeat, not willing to take on the girl who had proven to be an irritating but welcome associate.

"Well then Mr Morgan, I shall take you up on your offer, just in case my Prince Charming ever shows up." She took the bundle confidently. Arthur squinted; he wasn't planning on gifting the full amount, but she seized it anyway. Mary-Beth kissed him deep on the lips, they had taken to kissing openly. Hosea's wisdom eventually working its way through to a rudimental logic. There was no suggestion it would go any further, both clear where they stood. Yet, their kisses were warm, Arthur accepting it as part of their new existence, secretly enjoying the caress of her sweet virgin lips when they were offered so readily. The gang were smitten with this new romance, seeing it as healthier than the last. Appreciating Arthur to be a private man, there was no question of why they didn't share a tent or weren't heard indulging in sexual wants. Thus, they were afforded more freedom, their current escape billed as a romantic getaway to the big city. A show, dinner, a hotel room with luxurious lace and silk. To the man on the street, specifically, the man who clocked Arthur's confident criminal swagger as it roamed freely around the wealthy avenues of St Denis. Theirs was an established and secure relationship, one that spoke of confidence and longevity. Not so nervous in their touch as a newfound romance but still tumbling with desire. Mr and Mrs Callahan were a good match.

Arthur watched her turn on her heel and march off to the fancy shops located beyond the park, with enough of his hard-earned dollar to keep her in a wardrobe befitting a Queen. Arthur's motivations were pure, he promised Grimshaw that he would check John's pulse. Not to disrupt his new life or implant himself once again into his conscience. No, he was here to check that he still owned his arms and legs, was functioning as a respectable enough gentleman, away from the docks, away from opium, away from dubious men. He didn't share with Mary-Beth his secret assignment; she would insist on coming along. Her head caught up in the romance, would refuse to hide in the shadows, try to bring them back together, probably pushing them further apart.

He found the old Church on Gasper Street, it was dilapidated, more so than he imagined. Its structure was leaning slightly, the next gust of wind could have it over. Yet the sharp chorus of children laughing as they played with each other and their imaginations, it filled him with nostalgia. Isaac's laughter could light up the darkest room. It drew him closer, away from the flagstone buildings with no soul, that would remain well into the future. It brought him to the railings where he watched their small cherub arms and legs run forwards and backwards with glee across the messy courtyard.

"Hello sir, can I help you?" The Sister said, suspicious of the man whose eyes hadn't left the children.

"Hi…Ah…I am looking for John." He stopped himself. If his spies were to be trusted John would be at work, negotiating the city delivering medicine to the sick. He couldn't risk John being here for some obscure reason.

"Arthur Morgan, I am looking for Sister..." He said.

"Arthur," She opened the gate and came out to greet him. Her aged hands, with saggy skin and sharp bone cupped his face. "We finally meet. I must say you are far more handsome than I imagined."

"Thank you." Arthur blushed, he visibly stiffened, he didn't appreciate compliments from strangers who didn't know how bad he really was.

"Are you here to see John?" She asked, sliding her hand to his and guiding him into the courtyard.

"Ah…Not..No..I just want to check how he is doing for myself," Arthur said, massaging the back of his neck, her warm eyes were scrutinising, searching for a chink in the thick armour. He felt exposed by this warm-hearted but motivated expression. The Sister was circumspect and considerate not willing to speak of the matter until she had all the facts.

"From your letters, I gather he is thriving, and I have no intention in disrupting that." He said.

"Oh, all this secrecy," The Sister broke her stare, regretting, perhaps it was right not to disrupt him as he was on the surface, thriving. "Why can't you come clean? Allow me to come clean? I do not like lying to the boy."

"Withholding a truth is not lying, it is protecting." He choked as he said it, unsure if he believed it anymore, too many lies led to hurt. He reached into his satchel and pulled out another wad of notes, it was expensive business keeping John and Mary-Beth in the lifestyles they chose for themselves. One an outlaw turned shop boy, the other a shop-girl turned outlaw. A pinched smile crossed his face, both had the choice which is more than he was ever given, he was glad of that, still dysfunctional but definitely progress.

"Here, this is to cover his lodgings for the next few months." He said, passing the bundle over.

"Oh, please you don't have to he is a pleasure to have around." She protested out of politeness; it was evident the money was desperately needed. John was a gannet with hollow legs, the food bill for him alone probably cost more than he was paying.

"Really, you sure we are talking of the same John Marston?" Arthur smirked; flippancy always used to put him at ease in awkward situations.

"You're a bad man, speaking so ill of such a special soul." The Sister laughed, accepting the gift. She was interrupted from her thanks by the tug of her habit. A tiny alabaster hand was balled in a tight first. It belonged to a pouting angel with rosy red cheeks and deep blue ocean eyes, the girl was annoyed. Unfortunately for her, it made her too adorable, almost good enough to eat.

"Hello, you must be Rose?" Arthur knelt down to her level, pulling from his satchel a yellow rose, so vibrant and full. "I am sorry we haven't met yet." He said. Rose's sullen frown turned into a radiant smile as she accepted the rose and instantly hid behind Sister, bashful towards this new stranger.

"Rose this is...." The Sister began her introduction.

"Let's forgo the introductions don't want John finding out I was here." Arthur said, embracing the Sister's hands in a plea, hoping she would maintain the secret.

"Love finds a way Mr Morgan, love finds a way." She patted him on the shoulder, directed him to where John might be at this time of day and let him take his leave.

The Eastern District of St Denis, known locally as the Chinese quarter, burst with colours of the orient. The aromas were enticing and different as food stalls sold peculiar delicacies. It was alive and animated, merchants selling their wares, boys running, doing their masters bidding, washerwomen smoking on their breaks. It was almost a different place to seedy underbelly that came out at night. Good left the area at dusk and returned at dawn. He felt lighter, watching those industrious workers going about their day. He cast a glancing eye over a few stalls interested to see if anything caught his eye, anything he needed for himself. It was an unusual state of affairs where Arthur considered himself over others. Although he was alleviated of most of his money, he didn't have much left to be that considerate towards himself.

During his unexpected shopping trip a cursory glimpse, a familiar flash of colour alerted him. He wasn't expecting it and certainly wasn't prepared for it, not yet. He stepped forward, concealed by a dingy archway he peered around the corner. Capturing a mass of black riding mottle brown. Some sights are burnt like effigies in his mind. Watching his father hang, his mother passing, Isaac's smile and this, so familiar that even with a sideways glance he knew what it was.

He crossed the street, run through a small enclosed courtyard, full of potted plants and petite chairs and tables. The scent was sickly sweet as the flowers mingled with the acidic air, twisting into a fragrance that was neither inviting nor repugnant. Arriving at the other side, there was a gate, locked, considering jumping he thought against it. There is nothing inconspicuous about a man Arthur's size traversing a metal gate in the centre of a busy city. Instead, he waited, set back a few feet, the dim shadow of the tightly packed buildings covered his face. He heard the gravel whine first, even after all this time it still electrified his skin. So, few words ever were spoken, always punctuated with the alluring dulcet tones made him ache for the times when that voice called for him, in passion, love and need. When his name was prized from those crafted cupid-bow lips, in ecstasy, even in anger, it would send a shiver down his spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach. To hear his name once again would break all his resolve, his walls would crumble to dust, and he would be once again at the mercy of John Marston.

John said his goodbyes to his latest customer and returned to Jezebel. Arthur tried to get a full picture of the boy, had he changed, cut his hair, changed his clothes, style, was he taller, fatter, thinner. All these questions unanswered as John was close but distorted by the winding, busy streets and Arthur to scared to get closer, too afraid to be seen. What was left of his bruised heart hung on the thinnest of strings, that string was the belief that John would one day forgive him. To be seen now, only six months after the betrayal could break that sting and lose all hope. His head told him to leave, to stay away, for now, John was alive and thriving, he wasn't needed. His heart, the real one that was buried so deep most had to squint to see it, it couldn't let go, not just yet.

He stalked John at a distance for most of the day, it was more natural hiding in the shadows of the populated districts of St Denis. There were a few occasions where John inexplicably turned around, almost catching Arthur mid-flight as he transitioned from one hiding place to the next. There was a moment where they stared each other straight in the eye, the stag and wolf locked in their intimate gaze. Then John continued without hesitation, whatever caught his glance it wasn't Arthur. The route took them from the tightly packed streets to the broader urban boulevards and beyond, John got further away. Arthur could still see him, faintly a blob of dishevelled blackness atop another blob of mottled brown. He considered quitting, giving up for now and possibly returning once again. He needed a better grip on the route, mastering each point where he could obtain a full glimpse from the shadows. John, a piece of living art, a picture hung in a gallery to be watched and observed, provoking thought and feeling while none the wiser of his role.

Again, the creeping sensation of letting go, his heart pulling one way, his head the other. He struggled with conflict, as rare as it was to find himself as odds with his own thought. Single-Minded, focussed, knows what he wants and how to get it. That was how Dutch saw him, once, maybe how he used to be when the folly of youth allowed for such selfish behaviour. He was significantly punished for being so self-centred, only doing what he wanted to do, what made him happy. Mary, Eliza, Isaac even John all suffered under that regime, his head ruled his heart. With his heart almost dead in his chest, weakened beyond revival, it was fighting back. The last stand, throwing everything that was left in an attempt to sway his head to a different path, a different direction, one less travelled for the outlaw. A way that filled him with fear but also hope, wishing for an end that could bring him the happiness he so craved.

He followed John, they were out of town, approaching a grotesquely large ranch. It covered aches, yet sat in the backdrop of a city that was sprawling. Whoever owned this land must be wealthy indeed. The ranch afforded him some flexibility in his movements, barns, bales of hay, oddly shaped machinery sat littered around. Good hiding places even for the bulk of Arthur. He was able to get close again, close enough to hear and see as the afternoon sun illuminated his features. His harsh, tight face, covered by his mop of greasy black hair. He hadn't changed, not one bit. Still, the same height pointed on his sharp hips. Slender and muscular, Arthur thought on his favourite place, the V punctuated by his hips, trailing down like an arrow to his often-throbbing appendage. He turned away, feeling the heat rise from his belly he needed a moment to compose himself.

After a deep breath or two, he returned his gaze to the boy, a smirk of reverent passion on his face as he admitted nothing had changed. John was all he wanted, all he would ever want, denying himself wasn't going to make that less real. The first time he considered a life outside the gang, living with John. It was a fleeting thought, rather than being suppressed by his doubts it was allowed to float away like a dream. Not yet tangible or achievable but the feeling brief as it was, existed. Like all Arthurs thoughts, it would be nurtured and grown until his single-minded nature would kick in, and he would make it happen. He and John would be together, no matter how difficult it was or how long it took.

He was shaken from his bliss-filled desires by the arrival of a young man, handsome and built, he was definitely from money, he was too pretty to have lived a hard life. His sun-kissed skin, chiselled jaw and emerald eyes screamed well-groomed and spoilt. John visibly stiffened when he arrived, which made Arthur's muscles spasm. Raising John as he did, he recognised the signs of his discomfort, when he was insecure around certain people. It very rarely happened; John was not the sort to associate with individuals he didn't care for. Yet, a proper job means just that, associating with people, customers, who you don't care for. Arthur pressed his ear as close to their direction as possible. He couldn't clearly hear every word but could interpret the tone. The boy mocked John, was almost aggressive in his language towards him. He was rude and abrasive and John just accepted it, once apologising to the boy when there was no need. Arthur's finger twitched on the trigger of his revolver, he wanted to shoot the boy or at least teach him some manners. His muscles twitched as he tried to control the urge, suppress it. What happened to John, the stubborn firebrand never willingly apologised for anything, even when it was his fault. If Arthur spoke to him in the way this young man was, they would be punching each other in the face by now. How could he be so compliant? The outlaw thought; that isn't how he was raised.

Vexed and confused, Arthur returned to the road leading to Orchid Ranch. The young boy was irritating him, unlike all the other customers Arthur had seen John interact with this one felt significant. Was the young man threating John, making him feel small? Was he blackmailing him, did he know who John really was? Arthur couldn't shake the feeling that this young man, rude and brazen was somehow a problem. Arthur didn't like problems; they had a tendency to get worse if they weren't dealt with swiftly with an unrelenting force.

Pondering over what to do, how to approach this problem, Arthur missed John leaving. He expected him to turn right out of Orchid Ranch and back to St Denis, instead he went left heading toward the Bayous and swamps. By the time Arthur realised, John was almost out of sight. He shook his head in disbelief as he kicked Boadicea into life, racing to catch up. The swamplands were sticky, uncomfortable and eerie. He searched each building he came to; confident John could not have gone too far. A gentle, familiar nicker called his attention to a rundown barn slightly south of the road.

"Hello girl," Arthur cooed as he embraced Jezebel. "You missed me?" He said as she brushed her head against his, nuzzling each other, warm in their long-overdue reunion. "Where's your daddy gone, aye. Not like we haven't told him enough times about leaving you in strange places." Jezebel nickered, Arthur smiled, she always agreed with his assessments on her careless owner.

A gurgled plea came from the barn. Arthur's skin prickled, John was in danger. He crept slowly over to the boarded-up window of the barn, pulling his gun ready to shoot anyone who wasn't John. Through the slats he peered, the dark haze made it difficult to see straight away, his eyes adjusted, creating the form of John. He was hunched over, his back distorted couldn't have been comfortable, murmuring expletives as if in pain. Arthur tried to see if there was someone else there but he found only John. He frowned, confused to what he was witnessing, then the slow-witted cogs of his brain caught up and he turned away, embarrassed. Too many times, Arthur observed John's private relief sessions, heard his dreams, listened to his nocturnal activities. He would never tell John off or request he stopped, went somewhere more private. Instead, he felt the shame for both of them, the burning sensation of intruding, leering like a pervert, wishing to hear every noise, every stroke, ever slosh and slap of skin on moistened skin.

His cheeks burned red as the bulge grew in his own pants. He considered relieving himself then and there, the thought turned him on more. Touching himself so close to John, who had no idea and was doing the same. How many times in their tents at night, when they were younger, had they set each other off? Like a game of tennis, one satisfied grunt released too loudly instantly arousing the other so they could grunt back. They never discussed it, never even dreamed that was a conversation that should take place, but they both knew, deep down. If they weren't cuddled up together in Arthur's cot because of nightmares, they were provoking each other through thin sheets of canvas to play those games all boys played at that age.

Arthur palmed his manhood in pure frustration, Jezebel and Boadicea staring at him didn't help. "Don't you pair start." He whispered not enjoying their judgement. He unbuckled his pants, pulled the zip, peering through the gap in the window to watch as John furiously set a pace, he was bound to come soon. That didn't deter Arthur, his touch starved member-only requiring a few strokes. The image of his former lover growling with intensity enough to get him off in seconds. As he reached for his shaft, John came, shouting "Giorgio" as he released his spend on the ground.

The air punched out of Arthur's lungs; a sharp tumbling gasp left his lips. Giorgio, not Arthur. Giorgio, an exotic name. Giorgio a name given to one who has sun-kissed skin. A name of someone who makes you act not as yourself, makes you act a fool, allows them to take liberties, behave cruelly, break all the rules. The problem now has a name. The problem that needed to learn some manners, treat John with respect. He wasn't witnessing cruelty; he was witnessing seduction. John, always coy and bashful when he felt that stirring, that need growing. How could he not have seen it? He wanted to howl, the heat turning to sickness, his erect member deflated as reality set in. Giorgio, not Arthur.

"There you are?" Mary-Beth called to him from across the street. He was slumped on a bench in a garden full of pink and purple hydrangeas, their intoxicating fragrance deflecting the rotting stench of the city.

"Have you been drinking, Arthur!" she said sternly. He didn't respond, just waved his half-consumed bottle of whiskey in her direction. "I thought you had business; you weren't here for your debauched needs." She said, placing herself next to him.

"I lied" he grunted, "I am good at that, lying, so good I even convince myself." She seized the bottle and poured it on the grass.

"Arthur, you have been doing so well," She said, disappointed to see a return of this sullen, broken man.

"I am a fool Mary-Beth, fool for thinking anyone could ever love me." A tear formed in his eye. "Yet every time without fail, I convince myself that I am worth loving, every time I am made to be the fool."

"I love you, Arthur." She placed her head on his shoulder.

"Then you are the biggest fool of all." He rested her head on hers.

*****

He found the bell of his door cut, it hadn’t broken, having discovered it on placed on one of the display cabinets. He wasn’t out the back for long, just taking a break as he snacked on some bread and cheese. This intrusion ghostly as it was didn’t appear to have cost him. The shop seemed much as it was, each item accounted for. He fixed the bell and returned to his day.

It was only on second stock take did he notice the space, the Onyx watch. That young feral boy with a wolfish glare sold it to him that morning. The Onyx watch was gone, taken. That little thug, he could tell his was a criminal, taking the money and retrieving his watch.


	17. A Rose By Any Other Name

The farmhouse was standing when they arrived, its basic apparel soon seized by the vulgar furniture, unseemly, acquired from a world that was odds with the rustic setting. Neither men had an eye for placing furniture. Instead, they focussed on the practical, draws for clothes, bed for sleeping and other tasks, table and chairs for food. The rest, its purpose unclear, was placed in a back room. _The woman of the house could make that decision when she arrives. _A cruel reminder their time was limited

Cattle grazed in existing pens and few sheep, like sunken clouds, dotted the pasture land sat on the hilly terrain. Chickens clucked and scratched in the courtyard, delivering fresh eggs for breakfast every morning. John, changed immeasurably, up at dawn, making the coffee, mastering the cooking. Each morning a hearty breakfast set themselves up for the day. Giorgio, an expert in the art of torture, would press his naked skin against clothed ass, laying kissed on his bare shoulders in an attempt to win his attention, tempt him back to bed.

Both possessed a work ethic; the focus of the ethic would often diverge. John was driven to making the farm a success, having received the gift of a different life, it was essential to making it work. The farm weaving itself into part of his self-worth. Giorgio worked hard to distract John from the farm, to find new and exciting ways to milk the man. Sap him of his energy so he would remain compliant, resting in the cotton sheets of his bed. It was a toss of a coin each morning whose philosophy would win.

Slowly over time, John became the voice of reason. Giorgio sensed the growing seriousness in his frowning brow, secretly relishing his killer's newfound purpose. John was given the responsibility of hiring, he started small, a few men given a few hours labouring. John's inability to trust openly, cautiously set specific tasks to test loyalties. This was a slow process, a few men lasting weeks, some days, one sent instantly away no sooner than arriving. Giorgio mocking, _no man was good enough to work on the farm, should we hire women?_ It was not something he could quickly summarise, couldn't be written down, barely explicable, John just knew, he knew when he saw it. They were not only searching for good workers, skilled workers, but also loyalty and most of all, discretion.

John toiling hard from morning to night didn't notice the structure being erected straight away. It was set back, far back from the main house, in an open patch of woodland. He inquired to its purpose; _you will see!_ And wry smile all he got in return. The grand unveiling punched the air from his lungs, his home, more than he needed, two bedrooms and living space with fitted kitchen and running water. Giorgio even framed the deed, all legal and above board, John was a landowner, a homeowner. They christened every room twice, howling as splinters from the untreated wood pierced their skin. John determined to express his gratitude, the only way he knew how. After that day, the excitement drained from their bodies, it remained empty as John roots were firmly placed in the farmhouse with Giorgio.

Much remained the same for the first year on the farm, their never-ending summer continued long into winter. The hard-grunting labour of building the farm did nothing to dampen their desire for one another. If anything, the short days and cold nights further heated their passions and explorations. Bodies sated of lust remaining for warmth, finding a sincere devotion. Their union was much as it had been, rapture.

Time passing in joyful ecstasy raced forward to the inevitable, creeping like ivy into their bond, finding cracks and crevices to penetrating the superficial into substantial ravines. What started a minor annoyance became roaring challenges. Choosing not to discuss in any great detail, a curt comment or brief mention as throwaway as discussing the weather or what to eat for dinner. Innocence and immaturity once the attraction of such love became tainted by their inability to reason.

The final week should have been committed to preparation. John should have moved to his new lodgings set back from the farm purposefully placed for discretion. Instead, a ferocity of heat washed over them, if they were deemed passionate before a fervour cocooned their cravings, trapping them. Their light should be fading in the distance, quelled into weakness. Instead, it roared, a burning already intense they foolishly poured oil on it. Even the day when Giorgio was to leave, to marry his bride, John found himself sheathed deep in his lover.

To jump, to jump blindly, in hope, once the bravest decision, love conquering all. But time is the enemy of love or is it proximity? Life in Big Valley proved to be a study in pressure, how much the unsuspecting participants could take without losing the component parts that made them loveable in the first place. The answer, not much. Pressurised coal produces diamonds, pressurised people produces monsters, twisted by jealousy and envy, turning their souls wicked and intent on cruelty. The punishments were subtle, to begin with, barely registering, like the dripping of a broken tap it became unbearable over time.

His first glimpse, meant nothing to her, as he was nothing in her world. An employee of her husband, a neighbour, cordial greetings and nothing more. His first glimpse, stolen, as no sooner had he seen his eyes shot away. To look longer would be to scrutinise, to compare the incomparable. She was beautiful, of course, she was! Why wouldn't she be? The workforce, now secure in employment, made sympathetic glances towards John, understanding this was a seismic change in proceedings.

Mrs Clara Anderson, born to a wealthy merchant family, was gifted the same securities in life Giorgio had, they were a perfect match. Her hair raven black was set tight against her scalp, with little intentional ringlets descending to frame her long narrow face. Her lips were thin, barely enough depth to paint, almost pinched as though tasting sour citrus, but when she smiled, her whole face lit up with joy. John was glad she didn't choose to smile much. Her long, lean length, made her captivating, she couldn't be much shorter than most of the men.

Clara didn't treat her new home with the reverence expected. John having furiously cleaned every inch in an attempt to hide their love was greeted by a handful of maids, young girls from the town, brought in immediately to clean again. His efforts not good enough? Could she smell him on the furniture? Did she suspect he was more than a worker? The sympathetic glances all but disappeared, the bachelor workers set on wooing the maids had little time to empathise with John's predicament. The farm was alive and changing. 

The first meeting was not formal. John became an expert in avoiding contact, convincing himself that she was a demur wallflower that needed time to acclimatise to her new home. Before Giorgio introduced their original arrangement. She took her well-heeled boot and pierced it through his naive heart.

"Mr Marston!" Her caterwaul call summoned him to the porch of the farmhouse. His first attempt to survey this new entity which was just as crucial as Giorgio. Their relationship would be a contrast but still required respect if this was going to work.

"Yes, Mrs Anderson." John tipped his hat in greetings, treating the woman with the politeness expected between a worker and the housewife.

"I have noticed you helping yourself to eggs, please desist or I will dock them from your pay." Her dark eyes stared at him with all the force of a woman owning her position like a dictator suppressing his people. Her face was sallow, the application of pale makeup did nothing to accentuate her flat features, her lips thin curled at the sides into a deceptive smile. 

The line was drawn in the dirt of the chicken coop, what John failed to appreciate is that line would move, not measured in feet and inches but over time and years. It never moved in his favour, he was never gifted relief or release from the unrelenting animosity. Every hard-won battle only ceased further loss of ground, but she would succeed eventually.

Giorgio pretended to be blind, he would not accept the current arrangement wasn't satisfactory. He lived happily with his wife, who was meek in his presence. They attended church, had dinner parties, long walks and flowers, gifts bestowed for no reason. They behaved as society expected a newlywed couple to behave. John received the scraps from her table. With no warning or sense of being wooed Giorgio would arrive, practically undress no sooner had the click of the latch on the door locked. He took what he needed, demanding a pace from John was neither loving nor passionate. No sooner had they finished, like a ghost, he would disappear back to his life.

This slow, painful decline into obscurity halted, when Clara, confident and secure made her final move. Believing she played an expert game of chess, she called checkmate. Demanding her husband fire John and get a more professional and experienced foreman to run the farm. Clara and John entrenched in their war, forgot that Giorgio was not the prize, he was a neutral observer until he was pushed to intervene.

The intervention was swift and unexpected. Clara permitted free reign of home, the friends, the social events. She even had some control over some of John's movements and his allowances of Giorgio's time. Her miscalculation was telling her husband what to do with his business, not even John, but Giorgio's farm, his purpose. A ruddy mark formed on her check, circled by a blue-black bruise. A fragile cease-fire washed over them, both Giorgio's lovers guilty and concerned by the development

"I wish you would speak more, find some common ground." Giorgio said. As he buttoned his shirt.

"It’s been two years, Giorgio, she doesn't like me, and I don't like her. Would you give up on it." John fastened his belt. "Besides we have common ground, you, that appears to be the problem." John responded. He was unsure when the woman awoke to their reality. Giorgio refused to broach the subject, realising his wife was not open to accommodating the other relationship in his life.

"Clara has never said anything?" Giorgio assured.

"She has never said it, but everything she does is designed to stop us from being together." John challenged, wishing Giorgio would admit this was not working. They were not happy as they once were, Clara saw to that. To plicate his lover Giorgio promised once the first child arrived, she would be distracted and they could indulge a little more. John sensed the God he didn't believe in laughing, sending a woman so sour her womb could not support life.

"What do you want me to do, admit it to her? Have her call the law, gets us the noose?" Giorgio shouted he despaired how the conversation always came back to the truth and not acceptance.

"It would be preferable." John grumbled. Giorgio finished dressing, desperate to disappear, away from the two people who caused him so much anguish. Propriety meant he could not rid himself of his wife baron wife. Lust prevented him from sending John away, it was too convenient to have itch scratched by the man next door. This was their lot, if only they would accept it.

"This letter came for you, from Rose, I presume?" The last of the paper John brought ran out a year ago, the new paper was thicker, scented with lavender. It reminded him of Mrs Jameson, who sometimes wrote on Rose's behalf. The girl now ten was inconsistent still in her feelings towards John. Once she mastered the use of a pen, she would write fondly to him, telling him about the mundane activities that filled her life. A new doll, new shoes, classmates at school the types of things that elicited excitement from a child that were nothing more than chores to an adult. It was only as she grew older, something changed, a questioning thought of why she wrote to a man she could barely remember. Unsure of his relation to her, the connection. She grew bored with him, telling him tales of her day. Her thirst for reading quickly outgrew the dime novels, she was tired of them as she was bored with John. Outgrown. That is when Mrs Jameson took to writing him the letters, keeping her promise once a month.

She was always careful in her deliberations, subtle in her nuance of the struggles her and Mr Jameson had with the forthright and precocious Rose. He sometimes smiled when he considered his own childhood, she was stubborn like him. Still, at times it sat uneasily if there was anything John desired for Rose it was not to live life as he had done, to have a better road to walk. He opened the letter carefully, all the messages kept in their original envelope in a box under his bed. When Giorgio was distant because Clara was awkward, he would read them at night, thinking of better times.

_Dear John,_

_It is with sad news. I must inform you that Rose has run away. This is not the first time she has done such a thing but is the most prolonged period, and we doubt she will return on her own volition. We have searched, instructed the local police, but we no longer believe she is in the district._

_My wife and I have instilled all the love we can give to that girl, and it would appear it is not enough. Mrs Jameson, who has wished to love a child for many years, is broken by this latest development. My love for my wife far exceeds any love I have for another; I am not willing to put her capacity to live in danger any longer. Rose cannot be a part of our lives any longer._

_I write this to you as I know you have always had a fondness for the child, and I hope you are better equipped to seek her out and find her safe. If you can provide reason to one so unruly, I would hope she will find what she is looking for in your care;_

_It is with sincere regret that I ask you no longer correspond with my family, to know the truth of your feeling or any outcome for Rose would break us._

_Yours Faithfully_

_Mr Jameson_

John dropped the letter, leaving it on the table. He pulled out a trunk that contained his guns, belt and denim pants.

Giorgio read the letter

"No, John, you cannot find her!" He protested.

"She needs me," He said confidently. Giorgio's insecurities could not take precedence over Rose's safety.

"Then what, Clara can't have children, you bringing back this rascal will destroy her." He reasoned, his voice broke pleading.

"She will abide it as I have abided her all these year" John found his voice. "Rose is a child, scared and alone. This is my home and my decision."

"If I mean anything to you, you will not go." He was stern, it wasn't a plea, it was an assumption that Giorgio came first and could dictate what John should do, he was wrong.

"If I mean anything to you, you will not stop me." John said as he left.


	18. Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone, hope you enjoy the next chapter. I want comments on this one :-)

The gang had grown, it was a throng of deviant and feral people all drawn to Dutch's message of a better way, a better life, freedom. It helped to have so many new faces about the place, some were more welcome than others, but as a family, it worked. It suffocated the memories of their past experiences. Arthur was established as the gang's enforcer; if a job needed doing it would get done. He was free to come and go as he pleased, some of the newer campmates grumbled but Arthur had earned his independence. There was no mention of his upbringing, Dutch called him, son, from time to time but it was passive, it didn't hold the same weight it once did. John, gone for the past four years barely mentioned, if so, it was to reminisce on a soul that was long departed, dead to their world. It was a new life, carefully carved out by Arthur and Dutch finally letting go.

Even Mary-Beth matured, relinquishing any thought of love and romance, choosing to pen herself a prince charming in the prose she wrote. That and the newest arrival, Charles, was more befitting her age. Arthur pretended that he wasn't attracted to the broad shoulders and brooding manner of the half black, half native gentleman. His sharp intellect delivered sparingly, his long introspective silences. If Arthur wasn't closed, Charles would certainly be an option he was open to exploring. He accepted defeat, when Charles subtly probed him about his feelings for Mary-Beth, finding nothing but fondness one would have for a sister. He smiled as he watched across camp glad to see the two-good people he was proud to call friends slowly take the first steps towards romance. Seeking long walks in the woods off camp, linking hands when the thought no one was looking. Like the early throws of spring, their love was budding. Arthur was secure in his new existence, having feared the death of his heart. When it came, it provided perspective, if he was never open to love, he would never get hurt again.

"Arthur get over here?" Dutch said sharply.

"What's the job, Dutch?" Arthur inquired, there had been a buzz for days that something big was being planned.

"There is a factory, Hosea heard about it in a bar." Dutch unravelled a map of St Denis. "It's a front for liquor. The O'Driscolls somehow have a foothold in it. They provide security."

"Chance to kill some O'Driscolls, I like it already." Arthur chortled. Dutch nodded in agreement, the death of Annabelle at the hands of the O'Driscolls never truly resolved. They mis-stepped, rather than raging against the outward force they imploded inwards. That would not happen again, their new bond found over their tentative peace was to make the O'Driscolls pay.

"The takings are kept in a safe, located at the back of the office," Hosea said. "It will take some getting to but if we hit it at night."

"Arthur, you are the best at cracking safes, we get you in there, cover you, and you work your magic," Dutch said

"I don't know Dutch; how many men are guarding it?" Arthur questioned; he was relentless lately, always questioning. Too many jobs went wrong, poorly prepared, too many heads who liked to jump in without thought or understanding of consequence. The moths drawn to Dutch's flame were similar to the man himself, something else. It was only Hosea's rational thinking and Arthur's questioning that neutralised these wild beasts. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered, were often met with disdain and mocking.

"We don't have the details but trust me Arthur we have enough guns now to take on the O'Driscolls." Dutch tried to reassure.

"Not if they have an army guarding it?" Arthur said flippantly.

"Have some faith, Arthur," Dutch responded sternly; his new lapdog Micah Bell smirked behind him. Enjoying the muted conflict between the two, he would whisper into the older man's ear, poisoning the man's mind, mostly against Arthur, weakening their already decimated friendship. Arthur found with his freedom came to a loss of standing, he still did all the grunt work, was always respected for his abilities. Yet, his position at the top table was being eroded. The new set up required a level of flattery towards the leader's questionable tactics, Arthur was unwilling to participate in. He didn't have to prove himself to the leader, he remained loyal to what mattered, it was Dutch who changed.

The gang rode through the Bayous as one, bickering mostly, when they arrived at the cross-roads, they took separate paths, entering the city inconspicuously. Arthur was partnered with Sean, the loudmouth Irish man hadn't settled in the past four years, still brash and full of self-confidence. Jabbering on about his ma and pa, his incessant droning could disturb the dead. They hid out in the tavern of all places, still a proper spit and sawdust establishment full of drunks and dodgy characters. Some places do not change, even with the passing of so much time.

"Can we do one job where you are not half cut.?" Arthur muttered his annoyance as Sean knocked back his third whiskey.

"Come on English, relax, it is well documented the Irish function better with whiskey in their belly," Sean said.

"There are exceptions to every rule," Arthur replied, his wit dry, his eyes rolled grey as they became set with focus.

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Sean questioned, his ire rising.

"I need you focussed and not getting knocked out by the first guard you see." Arthur seized his glass as he poured another, knocking it back himself to save them both. He slid the glass back to the bartender and departed.

"Come on, that was once!" Sean called after him, he turned on his heel, stole the whiskey from the man next to him and ran.

As usual, piss poor planning promoted a piss poor performance. There were more men than expected. The gang pinned down early, barely through the door. It was a massacre, mostly O'Driscolls but Charles took a bullet to the shoulder. Arthur tried to step back, to check how bad he was hit but Dutch barked at him to move forward. Hosea not a natural with this level of violence pulled Charles out the fray. Arthur sighed with relief, he couldn't fathom functioning without Charles, not now.

Arthur pushed hard, finding the stairs to the office. A hail of bullets whizzed around him, the others returned fire, trying to cover Arthur and Sean as they went for the prize. Blood sprayed viciously, as the heads of three assailants exploded from the pellets of Arthurs shotgun, wielded with fury at the sight of the O'Driscoll henchmen.

Arthur was the first in the office. The safe was tall, taller than him, it was a five-bar lock, more complicated than he anticipated. Pushing Sean out of the way and kicked a chair under the doorknob, preventing anyone from disturbing them. He needed silence; his ear pressed hard against the cold reinforced steel couldn't hear the faint clicks of the pins unlocking. The thunderous raw of the gunfight hadn't abated. He screamed for silence to no avail. His senses were shifting to the smell of burning, close by, in the room, in Sean's hand, a stick of dynamite, lit. The Irish man teetering, drunk again. Arthur's eyes were wild with terror, if he had time, he would have throttled the moron to death there and then.

"You idiot!" he said in his southern drawl. Grabbing the dynamite, placing it next to the safe. He ran to the door of the office, the chair ripped from its position clattering into pieces against the wall.

"Fire in the hole!" He shouted to the others before pulling Sean back out into the corridor.

The crack of dynamite exploding tearing through the office, dust crept through the cracks of the doorway. Arthur peeked first, the smoke billowing away revealed the safe still intact. Sean put a foot forward, Arthur halted his progress. A creak of floorboards echoed like a ship listing preciously in a storm. A final creak and the safe smashed through the floor crashing to the ground below.

"We've got it," Javier called up through the hole. The impact of the safe hitting the hardened concrete smashed the door. Arthur looked down, once again, luck was on their side, judgement greatly missing. They returned to the stairs, one lonesome O'Driscoll stood at the door of the factory, in his hand a bottle. Arthur roared a warning,

"Get out, get out now." A flaming bottle flew through the air, breaking on the distillery cask. The air thick with fermenting booze crackled with flames, quickly followed by an explosion that ripped through the ground floor.

Arthur pushed Sean out of the window, he crashed to the ground, winded, he pulled himself up gingerly, ushering the outlaw to follow.

"Run!" Arthur ordered. A second explosion propelled him out, his arms and legs flailing as he flew through the air, hitting the ground with enough force to knock him out.

Arthur woke, the rain thrashing against his face, the flames heating his skin, the cold, wet cobbles undulating under his back. The siren calls of fire engines echoed in the distance, the shrill whistles of the police nearby, he had to run. He grimaced in agony, bent double, pulling himself behind some crates. His mind screaming to run but his body remained steadfast, loyalty compelling him to stay, in case they were trapped. He needed to know the damage. Illuminated by the fire, crouched silhouettes made their retreat. Javier and Dutch, followed by Bill, Lenny and unfortunately Micah. All present safe and accounted for. He was free to leave but trapped by the throng of law enforcement surrounding the inflamed factory.

He pulled himself up, grunting, his body crying from the pain. Still shaken, he headed East, away from the others. Separation would aid their escape. He hid in the shadows as another wave of engines roared past towards the factory. Seeing the coast was clear, he ran, using the darkened alleyways to conceal his movements. He kept running, his lungs burning added to the medley of injuries he was now harbouring. He ran straight into another body, sending them flying over the wet cobblestones. His fist clenched as he kissed the ground, fearing it was the police, he was going to have to fight, turning to face the unknown force, he paused.

"Marston, what the hell..." In the eerie gaslight quiet, the distant blasts of the distillery still exploding. Arthur stood exposed in the street, unable to move as John stared back at him, dumb as ever. His blind spot, the one he never saw coming, was back. Their gaze locked fierce and angry, they scowled at each other, a ripple of white heat, incendiary, consuming every quick-paced thought, neither willing to utter a word.

A shrill pulsating whistle kicked his instinct back into focus. He grabbed John, shoved him unceremoniously through an alleyway and behind some creates set under a stairwell. Arthur shuffled his weight in the crouched space, drawing his gun as he peered through the gap; if they were seen, they would have to escape, shooting. Moments passed, the thick boots thudding hard disappeared in an echo, leaving them in relative peace. The distant booms of the collapsing distillery muffled by the deafening silence between them.

"Take it that explosion was another Dutch Van Der Linde Special?" John said, drolly. "Still loyal to what matters?" He was cruel in his mocking. Shielding himself from the fear that Arthur, his Arthur, so many roles and people could see through his skin, into his chest and find his heart still beating with passion.

"You know me, John, if I had any sense, I would have used it by now," Arthur said, using his whit to illuminate the truth within. He didn't need to be mocked; he was aware of how misguided his ideology was. "What are you doing here, last I heard, you were living out west." Arthur inquired, sitting on a sturdy wooden crate, they were going to be here for a while.

"Who told you?" John having convinced himself no one, not even Arthur, knew where he was.

"The wind, your odour disappeared." He said dryly.

"Very funny," John grumbled. He studied the older man, he was different, a raggedy unkempt beard now sat firmly on his scarred chin. His sense of fashion hadn't improved any, his pants fraying slightly from scuffing, running, still a workhorse.

"You look healthy?" Arthur offered to try to distract the younger from his scrutinising assessment. Seeing those wolf eyes burn again as they lingered too long on his person. Finding a dishevelled mess, he was embarrassed to appear so unrefined, John kept better company these days.

"You calling me fat?" John shot back in anger. "You look like a woodsman been on his own too long."

"Calm down, princess, not calling you fat, you look good." Arthur instantly regretted saying it, he meant healthy, not fat, not fuckable just healthy. Again, those eyes burned through him, interrogative every word with a disgusted look of disappointment.

"I need to go Arthur," John said, having been caught by his inscrutable gaze. Even unkempt his ocean blues still captivated him, made him feel exposed, an open book to be read at discarded, no better than a cheap dime novel.

"This ain't going to blow over anytime soon, we need to get out of the City as quickly and quietly as possible." Arthur fell back into his role, planning, assessing their options, plotting their escape.

"I can't leave, I need to find Rose!" John whined, irritated by how quickly we entered his vocabulary. _We, was a long time ago, we, don't exist anymore, you made sure of that._ The whine called to Arthur like church bells on a sunny Sunday in spring, with all the promise of a new start hanging in the air. He clenched his fists, escape was going to hard, even harder if it meant tearing himself away from John.

"Rose, why?" He probed.

"She ran away from home, think she would have come back here, St-Denis is the only place she knows," John said.

"John, that's is a needle in a haystack! Without the added bonus of the law searching." Arthur drawled, "Thinking and knowing is the difference between getting caught and escaping."

"They won't be searching for me." John retaliated.

"Still on our wanted posters, you may have disappeared out of the gang's sight, but the long arm of the law has an even longer memory." Arthur reasoned. John's head sunk; it had been so long since he was near any of the gangs stomping grounds, he forgot that he was still a wanted man.

"Christ Arthur, this isn't a joke, she could be in danger!" He pleaded, broken that his chance to save Rose was being hijacked by his old life. Arthur hesitated, they both knew he wouldn't abandon John, wouldn't risk his own safety to find Rose, but he was still reluctant.

"I will help you find Rose if you help me find a place to lie low?" Arthur offered, his gun shook in his hands, fearing this was not the best choice for either of them.

"Fine, but we find Rose first!" John demanded, placing himself next to Arthur so they could whisper a plan. His hot breath next to his ear, the faint tickle of his whiskers against his skin, the proximity making them both fidget in discomfort.

They scurried like rats through the streets. The slightest flicker of a finger, narrowing of an eye the only words spoken. It was unnerving how quickly the symmetry of their past lives clicked back into place. Arthur, the leader, mentor, John willing to be led, gave absolute faith. As they flexed and flowed united by their instincts, the past grievance appeared to wash away, dissolving in the torrential rain. Absolved and cleaned of all their sins against each other, they were back, beating as one.

"There is a place I know about down by the docks. It fronts women, but there is a side entrance, for those with other tastes." Arthur said, moving towards the docks.

"For god's sake, Arthur, it is bad enough these places exist, it is worse you know about them." John chastised; he should have been grateful that Arthur was so knowledgeable about the evil that lurked in the cracks. John always detested finding out something about the world he wished didn't exist. Or that Arthur no longer felt compelled to protect him from the realities, protect his innocence.

"What do you want me to do about, save the worlds from its sins, had a hard-enough time keeping you alive." They locked eyes, again referencing the past, as easy as watching the sunset, it just tumbled out, barbed and inferring. John's mind screamed, what was that supposed to mean? Was it the outlaw being self-deprecating, Arthur can't do anything right, not even protect John? Or a slight on John, Arthur could have saved the world from its sins if it wasn't for John always needing saving. He grabbed his hair in frustration, his mind couldn't focus on Arthur intruding back into his life and saving Rose, it was too much.

"Just keep yourself in check, we are here for Rose, I don't want you trying to save every kid in there." Arthur could see the struggle, misunderstood it as external, fear for Rose and not his presence crippling John's mind.

"No, that's your job," John said quietly, he could just as quickly dredge up the past.

"We can't have two disasters in one night, discreet, find Rose, we don't shoot, kill or cause any kind of disturbance," Arthur ordered

"What's the plan?" John nodded, reluctantly accepting the junior role.

"If she is in there, I will find her, buy her services for the night and get her out," Arthur confirmed.

"If she isn't?" John challenged, as a plan, it was a bit weak.

"Then I will have freed some poor other kid to roam the street alone." Arthur inflected his annoyance. He clasped his fist, abstaining from punching the idiot. Only John could land back into his life without warning, present a problem that was complex and impossible and expect him to deliver. Spoilt brat as always.

"Arthur look." John pointed past the house of ill repute and to a doorway further down. Her ragged blonde hair, dirty, stuck to her face. Her clothes torn to tatters, she still maintained her milky white skin, rosy red cheeks, cherub pout with innocent blue eyes as they stared up a man and nodded. She guided the stranger through the gas lights into a side street. John bolted, his skittish nerves pacing his legs faster than his mind could respond. He wasn't actually moving, Arthur held his collar tight, pulling him back to their hiding place.

"You ain't got any smarter with age, Marston," Arthur said, pinning him to the wall. Time stopped, the weight of him under his touch, the nervous twitching, not visible to the naked eye but trembling against his fingers. He forgot to breathe, gasped and bit his lip to hide the audible rush of his lungs inhaling, always took his breath away. John, doe eyes at the ready, flinched once again, they didn't have time to be lost in each other, Rose needed saving. He fell the moment he saw him again, accepted in instantly, why did Arthur always fight it, the most natural thing either of them had.

"I will go and sort it, you stay here and keep those emotions in check." He grumbled, crossing the street, shaking his pants to loosen his half-erect member.

"Hey fella, hope you don't mind, but I am little lost, I am looking for…" Arthur said politely.

"Get lost" The man spat back

"Oh, is your daughter she is a pretty little thing, bit late to be out on a night like this." He said, bending and winking discreetly at Rose.

"Get lost, or I'll shoot you," The man threatened, trying to return to his place between Rose and Arthur.

"You will do no such thing, if you still want to keep your balls, now I suggest you leave." Arthur's said sultry, his metronomic tones hypnotising the man. He dug his knife into the pants, nicking the skin ever so slightly to show he meant business. The cold blue eyes burned up at the man, who quaked and gulped and ran.

"You let him live!" John whined, rushing towards them.

"What did you want me to do, kill him in front of the kid. A fine parent you will make." Arthur rebuked. Rose saw John, big, lovable, dopey John, running towards her like a loyal puppy sent to protect her and she kicked him in the shin. Arthur shuffled to hide his smile

"Hey, hey, what did I do?" John squealed as he bent down to face her, cradling his injured shin.

"You left me, you left me alone with those people." She squalled in anger.

"Oh Marston, welcome to the joys of parenting, you can't do right for doing wrong." Arthur chuckled, enjoying the reunion, in Rose, John had met his match. Now he will know what it's like to be a constant disappointment.

"Shut up Arthur." John scowled at him.

"They were good people Rose, they loved you." John tried to reason, her scowl and folded arms would not listen.

"No, they were cruel, horrible people." She spat back at him.

"Rose, I can see your nose growing, and no one is as cruel and horrible as that man you willingly came here with." He retorted, trying not to smile at her impossibly adorable face. Arthur chuckled more at the stand-off a battle of wills against a grown man and child, he could see Rose would win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da- Fate, serendipity, the boys are back together. Some of you lost faith that it would happen, others got impatient, but it has finally happened. Hope it met expectations!


	19. Escape

Each stone slab was meticulously placed between the sandy grout. The widows, sashed, scaled floor to ceiling over the three stories, decorated with rustic white shutters. It sat in a row, of similar imposing homes, the textured stones, rough, built by even rougher and textured hands to withstand the brutal storms that rolled in from the estuary. 

The home of Dr Theodore Scott was much as John expected. From the outside it was muted, there was no ornate topiary or flowing trellises of flowers and ivy that adorned the other houses. What it lacked in foliage it made up for in old-world curiosity. The door was immaculate, its glass panels obscured the view of the inside with painted patterns. A gothic knocker, the snarling face of a lion, illuminated by the two gas lights sat either side. It was both welcoming and slightly creepy in the same breath.

He cradled Rose in his arms, her body grown, weighing heavy as her limp limbs dangled around his hips and shoulders. Their disagreement escalated, she bawled and screamed violently, jeopardising their escape. Arthur soothed her, picking her up in his large piston arms, cradled her like a baby. He cooed softly, reassuring her until she settled. John was embarrassed, blushing with envy. Arthur was different with Rose, not enforcing silence, not shouting or threatening, just cool, calm and reassuring. John wasn't given such luxury when he was causing holy hell at that age. He was jealous, and he was so fatigued he ached to be carried in those large arms. When she finally fell to sleep, Arthur passed her over to John for him to take. He could hear the older man grumble about responsibility. Really, deep down, Arthur felt guilty for stepping in, his interference driven by necessity. He could sense John's disappointment, his cheeks flushed, obviously angry that Arthur had taken over, fulfilled the role he wanted to play. John had this all to come, the words spoken in anger never forgotten, like a scab repeatedly picked at until it wouldn't heal. The scars left visual reminders littered across the skin, a chronicle of all the failures in performing the most important of duties. 

John knocked on the door painfully aware it was past midnight, Theodore probably retired hours before would likely not answer. Too cautious a man to open his door to strangers calling in the middle of the night. He stepped back, finding the stocky frame of his ex-lover, standing firm. He grabbed his hand, grateful for his stoic presence. In his weakest moments, he doubted his ability to function without Arthur. Every step questioning if he was capable. A single oar, pointless without the other, failing to navigate, trapping in an endless circle of doubt and fear. Four years apart taught him he was resilient; he could operate without Arthur. Yet, this night, consumed by a terror he never thought possible. Realising that to be a parent meant surrendering any sense of control, spending every waking moment dreading. He wasn't dependent on Arthur; this was something different. He could have done it without him, but he was grateful he didn't have to.

Arthur allowed it, John was poised, carrying Rose confidently like she had been his from birth, a natural. It was his long slender hand, entwined in his own that betrayed his nerves. The slightest uncontrolled twitches, shaking. He felt compelled to absorb his fraying, use his own composure to keep John standing, if only for a few more minutes. Once they were secure behind the walls of the townhouse, safe, John could break; however, he saw fit. Arthur would be there, as he always had been to put him back together.

"You sure about this Marston?" He said.

"Trust me, he is a good man," John responded. Arthur winced; it wasn't a matter of trust. He would willingly follow John into the depths of hell if he asked him to. This was control, Arthur's current lack of. He needed reassurance. John found it in the physical, holding hands, Arthur needed words; specifically, John's words, spoke with his gravel voice. They didn't need to mean anything, could be a jumbled mess of nothing, his voice, comforted him, made him feel safe.

They separated when a warm glow emitted behind the door. A clink of a chain and a crack of light escaped lit up the alcove. John passed the sleeping Rose to Arthur and stepped forward and in whispered tones, requested help from his dear friend and mentor.

The door opened, a small man with salt and pepper hair squinted at them in his silk paisley pyjamas. John turned, reaching his hand out to call the pair forward. His heart stopped, seeing his Rose, dainty in Arthur's strong arms. For the first time since reading Mr Jameson's letter, he felt peace.

The hallway was sparse but warm, whitewashed walls with a lone glass mirror handing next to the coat rack. Minton tiles, cascading patterns of brown, ellipting. Theodore had an appreciation for the styles of the old country, it was unusual in the vibrant former Spanish colony. 

"Who is it, Theodore?" John tensed, which made Arthur shudder, John promised him Theodore lived alone.

"It's John Marston, he needs our help," Theodore called up the sparse staircase. The stairs creaked as a similar squat man in identical paisley pyjamas approached the landing. They both squinted to view the man entirely.

"Dr Barnes!" John wavered, not expecting the two men to also live together. No wonder they were short with each other, that antagonism can only be born from over-familiarity. Similar to how he and Arthur used to be. Most who didn't know would contest John and Arthur hated each other; their bickering fierce, but they would just as quickly die for one another.

"Rose ran away from home, Dr Barnes, we found her down the docks. Please, I need help." He pleaded, ignoring Arthur's inquisitive glare, he could sense the obvious question that hung in the air, in truth he never considered it.

"Bring her up, John, I will check her over." Arthur passed Rose back to John and watched as they ascended the stairs. Even in the lavish home, he was still cautious, scared to have either of them out of his sight. Stop being irrational, he told himself.

"You look like you could do with a drink?" Theodore offered warmly

"Man, after my own heart," Arthur said gruffly.

Theodore pulled from a cupboard a bottle of whiskey, Arthur whistled, it was not cheap. "Bought as a gift by Mr Marston, how do you know each other?"

"Brothers" fell from his lips so naturally.

"He never mentioned a Brother?" Theodore was embarrassed as soon as he said it, prying sensitively was an art form he never mastered.

"I am not the type of brother anyone would willingly admit to, certainly not the type to receive such fine gifts of whiskey." Arthur sighed, Theodore, placed two glass cut tumblers down and poured.

"Well, he is rather a flighty individual, one day he was there next he was gone." Theodore elaborated.

"I know how that feels" Arthur snorted.

"I suppose we all have our faults, to your health Mr Marston" Theodore raised his glass. Arthur had been intentionally cagey, this was John's world, he could risk being sucked in by these warm-hearted people, couldn't risk ruining John's new life. Couldn't risk feeling comfortable, belonging. Couldn't risk John thinking Mr Marston was an option on the table, they would be Morgan’s in his dreams.

"Arthur Morgan." He relented, Theodore was a man that could be trusted, there was a spark of dishonesty that sat behind his eyes that an outlaw could trust. They sipped their whiskey quietly, there was palpable anxiety flowing between them which was unusual for Arthur. Generally, when he decided to trust, it was entirely and unwavering. This unease was Theodore's, did he not trust Arthur?

"I hope I can rely on your discretion; Joseph and I live a quiet life." Theodore shot a glance of acknowledgement. Arthur's lips curled slightly, his unspoken question to John in the hallway answered. Trust Marston to befriend a pair of old queens and not even realise.

"I am not in the business of judging how two men chose to live," Arthur reassured, the tension lifting in confessed smiles.

"If more were like you." He gestured, topping both their glasses.

Arthur, out of habit, took out his revolver, placing it on the table. Theodore flinched slightly at the sight of the gun. He requested a cloth; which Theodore provided and began cleaning. Meticulously taking apart each piece, expecting and polishing. Theodore relaxed once again and watched the dishevelled man as he lost himself in his task.

"There is comfort in precision, taking something apart, putting it back together, and it still works, takes one's mind off stress." Theodore recognised, sensing he understood this stranger, identified with the need for correctness, even in something small. Control your world, and everything else will somehow work out. 

"I need to keep my hands busy, always been like it when I am..." Arthur paused; he wasn't in the business of revealing his peculiarities.

John shuffled into the kitchen, he had the appearance of a washcloth that's best days were behind it, ringed ragged, threadbare and worn. His eyes shone, near to tears, there was no doe or wolf but something different, something Arthur hadn't witnessed in him before. The boy was more complex, was developing the layers of a life that required many faces, he could relate. When he started lying to conceal his multiple roles, glimpses in mirrors revealed his expressions, confirming he wasn't hiding as well as he thought. He wanted John to go back to the way he was, black and white, pure.

"John, is she ok?" Arthur prompted the shell of the man, not yet present.

"Yeah, she is sleeping." He shook, exhausted. "Thank you, Arthur." He patted him on the shoulder, but his hand lingered. The closeness, he wanted Arthur to wrap his arms around him tell him what's going to be ok. Arthur melted, his stoic facade crumbling under his touch, he placed his hand on John's their eyes lingering, too tired to deny the sentiment that pumped through them. 

"You two look like you need to catch up, I shall leave you to talk. There is a spare room next to Rose, you're welcome to stay as long as you like." Theodore could sense his presence was muting words that needed to be spoken. They said their goodnights, Arthur returned to cleaning his guns, John poured himself a glass of whiskey. 

A thud of a pendulum clock echoed, filling the silence that sat between them. John's nerves were frayed, he skittishly bounced around the four walls of the kitchen, finding a place to rest and then moving again, instantly.

"Would you stop!" Arthur finally shouted. "We are safe. I don't need them nerves tearing up the place, not tonight."

"What nerves? I am not nervous." John said.

"Fine, well whatever it is, I don't need to be worrying about you doing something stupid, that generally what happens when you are like this."

John gripped the countertop until his knuckles gleamed white, he bit his lip in frustration. Arthur could pretend he knew him, could read him like a book but four years was a long time, and Arthur Morgan didn't know as much as he thought, he certainly didn't know John anymore.

"Should have killed that man, he could be out there doing it to another kid," John spoke, his mind rattled with so much that it was the only clear thought he could be sure of. Arthur leant back in his chair, massaged his beard as he studied John, the idiot.

"He had a rather large knife against his balls, it won't stop him, but it will slow him down." Arthur plainly offered a defence.

"How can you be so casual about it?" John growled.

"I am sorry I am not good enough for you!" Arthur tactically hastened the argument, he was too tired to dance around, ignoring the real issue, building barriers between them was always fatal.

"Is that what you think?" John was stunned by the admission

"Your left because, I was, and clearly still am a disappointment, I am not mad, you weren't the first. Just could do with you not twisting the knife, not tonight." Arthur returned to his gun, his hands were unrestrained, cramping, ferocity pulsating, the sinew spasming. Didn't John realise he had precisely the same compulsion, an unanswered bloodlust? Why did the angst caused by others always get laid at their door? They took shots at each other because the real target was nowhere to be seen.

"I left because I couldn't compete," John cracked, his gravel voice croaking in his thick throat. "I was never going to be first in your world."

"You always came first; you just couldn't see it!" Arthur roared loudly, broken, he suspected but to hear it was the final nail in his heart. He failed, cheating lover, absent brother, he was unable to protect John where it really mattered, didn't protect him from Arthur Morgan.

He was spiralling, lost in his thoughts when a sob bellowed out across the expanse of the kitchen. John was crying, his uncontrollable snotty cries, debilitated and sticky. Arthur was sure it was in there just needed coaxing out of him, like a dam breaking from the pressure, John could never suppress the angst not when the adrenaline had been flowing.

"I missed you, it's been so hard without you by my side." John blubbed.

The chair scraped painfully across the floor as Arthur drifted to John, hesitant, his thick arms wrapping him into an honest hug. He kissed his head and softly cooed in his ear, _it’s ok, it's ok, I am here now. _Arthur cradled him until his sobs became whimpers and then stuttered snores.

"Come on, let's get some sleep." He whispered sultry into his ear, the younger half-asleep followed him loyally, arms locked, half-carried up the stairs. They checked on Rose from the doorway, the landing light illuminating her soft features, as her gentle rasps filled the air.

John could barely stand unsupported, his mind and body equally fatigued, returning to his boyhood reliance on Arthur. The older was likewise charmed by the offer of complete dependence John exhibited. He undressed him, folding each layer neatly as it was removed. John contributed by unbuttoning his union suit.

"Leave it on, you got a kid now, she calls for you in the night you can't be fumbling about to put your suit on," Arthur interjected.

"There is so much to think about. It's overwhelming." He grumbled, fumbling and failing to fasten the buttons back up. "Dr Barnes...Joseph said she hasn't been...not recently anyway." Arthur nodded, what to say, poor Rose probably witness to more evil in her short years than some see in a lifetime. He knew the task that lay in front of John was an impossible one, how to comfort and love someone who has never be shown how to receive affection.

Arthur was reticent; if he could give John all the secrets to alleviate the stress, he would. Then his eyes fixated, the scar shone like silver, rippling and raised across his heart.

"Another scar on your body I am responsible for," Arthur said realising John was watching him stare.

"I am sure the guy with the gun might have something to say about it." John scoffed, there were many things John blamed Arthur for, the scar from the train robbery was not one of them.

"Shouldn't have turned away." He grumbled as he knelt, running a finger across the raised bump. He always mapped John's scars committing them to memory.

"Can you stay with me, please?" John's breath hitched, feeling those cold fingers rub across his skin, sensitive. John felt the cracks forming, he was a glass teetering on the edge of a shelf, a light draft could have him shattering onto the tiles below. Only Arthur could save him.

Arthur took a deep breath and nodded. John shuffled, waiting expectantly for Arthur to join him. He crawled in, fully clothed, stiff and hoarse, he gulped. They were falling so quickly back into their old habits; old routines like they had never been apart. John wrapped his arms and legs around him, he still had no shame. Arthur was rigid, not expecting to be held so tightly. The clock wound back ten years, all the water between evaporating, all the pain.

"I had a nightmare" Arthur jolted confused, John hadn't been asleep yet, not long enough for a nightmare, then he realised it wasn't John.

Arthur rolled his eyes, the short skinny frame hung on the doorknob, awaiting permission to enter.

"Come on," Arthur said begrudgingly. Shuffling slightly to give her more space than she actually needed.

"Comfortable?" He strained his eyes to meet hers they were alive with enthusiasm, not exactly ready for rest. He glanced at John, who looked at him with the same stupid expression.

"Right, now we are going to sleep" Arthur commanded. "We are going to close our eyes and go to sleep." They thought he was losing, but he could fall asleep anywhere, and he did.

They both giggled, entwining their fingers across his chest. All together for the first time, felt like they had always been together, three lost souls finally finding each other.


	20. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little argument, the road to love can be a bit bumpy, especially with these two.

Bacon, the salty aroma called to him from the kitchen, his stomach growling himself awake. He noted every ache, logging the potential damage into categories. Those that can be ignored to heal on their own, those that may be upgraded requiring treatment later in the day. Those that needed immediate attention, the two most substantial aches that required his focus were those lying in either arm. Their dead weights cutting off his circulation, he flexed his hands, triggering the tingling that came with the loss of blood flow. 

He thought to shuffle, gently waking the sleeping babes from their slumber, he hesitated. The rising of his chest each time he took a breath made the mop of black and mop of blonde rise and fall, stuttering soft breaths. If the stiffness in his back wasn't screaming for him to move, he could have remained forever. Witness to the calm, sweet sleep, only achieved through the potent mix of exhaustion and security. A light rap on the door drew his attention away.

"Good morning, breakfast is ready," Theodore whispered, not wishing to disturb the scene of rest. A polite nod and a wry smile crossed his face as he bid his retreat, warmed by the budding closeness of this family in the making. Arthur reddened, caught being soft when he was meant to be an outlaw. 

Breakfast was a feast, bacon, sausage, potatoes, beans and some rarity from the old world called black pudding. Rose moved it around her plate, uncertain of its texture. Arthur consumed the black mass confidently; food as fuel in whatever form it came. John and Rose, pulled grotesque frowns of disgust at his confidence to eat without question.

"You must excuse our ways, as you can tell from the house, Theodore is a despicable anglophile," Joseph said as he delicately consumed his meal.

"Now, now, I have an appreciation for my heritage." Theodore protested

"I am glad I was born in America if that is what they call food," John added.

"You haven't tried it yet!" Arthur challenged. 

"Don't intend to," John responded confidently

"That the example you are setting for Rose?" Arthur replied. John studied the man's eyes for a moment, searching for any sign that this was a joke. Finding no sign of humour in his smooth blue iris', he begrudgingly ate the black pudding. Parenting clearly meant sacrifice, Arthur continually pointing that out to him, he needed to prove himself worthy of the role of father. Prove to Arthur he wasn't the selfish kid anymore; he could raise Rose. All eyes set on him as the crumbly soil-like substance was chewed. A grimace crossed his face, finding it akin to offal but worse. He swallowed the rest whole, trying to protect his taste buds from the complete residue of taste.

"Marston, you're still dull as rusted iron." Arthur chortled.

"What? you said…." John watched as the wicked smile crossed the older man's face, of course, it was a joke.

"Yeah, I didn't want to be the only one to try the worst thing I have ever eaten. No offence Theodore." Arthur waved his hand in acknowledgement to the Doc.

"It is an acquired taste." He said. John kicked Arthur under the table and scowled, he still had all the power.

They finished their food, Arthur tried to tidy the crockery but was instantly shooed, _you are a guest!_ They watched as the two men darted around, cleaning the table. Then witnessed a moment of tenderness none were expecting. Joseph leant into his lover Theodore and kissed him lightly on the lips before excusing himself. John's eyes darted to Arthur's and down to Rose, her nose scrunched at the display of affection. Arthur shook his head, reading John's thoughts, Rose was reacting to the act of love as being gross, as all children would. She yet to understand the significance that the display was between two men, there was no point in mentioning it.

"We will be in work most of the day, so you have free reign of the house, there is a tub upstairs," Theodore suggested, hoping they would all take up the offer.

*****

"Rose, are you ok? John called through the door, his hands splayed on either side, considering whether allowing the girl to lock the door was the best choice, what if she had an accident, slipped in the bath and drowned.

"Yes, still ok." She called back politely, her tolerance for his idiosyncrasies improving immeasurably.

"Ignore him, Rose, he gets nervous around water," Arthur grumbled as he passed John on the landing, heading for the Victorian washroom located next to their bedroom. He took the kit Theodore had left him, using the scissors to remove most of his facial hair. Then lathered up cream, covering the lower portion of his face. With the razor he began in earnest, carefully removing the remaining stubble. If they were going to leave in plain sight, he needed to change his appearance. All his wanted posters captured him in his ruff, woodsman presentation, no one would be looking for a suave gentleman. Attempting to focus he couldn't ignore John, still stuck to the door, Rose bathing behind it,

"Get in here!" He hollered. John reluctantly joined him

"You have to manage your insecurities, or they will become her insecurities." Arthur provided insight without being asked. In the mirror, he could see John deflate, he wasn't pointing out his failures just wanted him not to make the most obvious mistakes so early on.

"What are you doing?" John asked

"What does it look like?" Arthur waved the razor in his hand.

"Well you're making a pig's ear of it, give it hear." John seized the razor, turning Arthur around so he could see him clearly, he began to tidy up the mess.

"I am sure you have dreamed about having a cut-throat razor to my throat." Arthur chortled. John didn't respond, unflinching he focussed on the task, his fingers tenderly placed against Arthur's skin. Long gentle strokes of the razor precisely removing stubble, leaving the red-hot flush of his cheeks exposed. Arthur gulped, mesmerised by the contact of skin touching skin, John's hands on his body, tender and warm. He studied the expressions, eyes focussed and burning, creases in his forehead, twitch of his lips, the utmost concentration. Arthur shuddered, undeserving of such consideration. He was proud of how John, skittish on his nerves, always showed the utmost calm and care with a deadly weapon in his hand. When he finished, he used a towel to wipe the remained flecks of cream from Arthurs's face, leaned forward and kissed the scar on his chin. Arthur's breath stuttered at the sensation of those lips, plump and full caressing his soft chin and that scar. He was being claimed, again. His pupils dilated as he searched John's face for a sign of meaning, all he found was a ponderous pout, he wasn't forgiven. John, without speaking a word left, returned to his post outside Rose's door.

*****

Arthur escaped the house for a few hours, the stifling oppression of John's glare was awakening feelings he thought were long dead. He suspected it was all a rouse on John's part, acting coy and seductive, hoping it would convince Arthur to stay, get them back to Big Valley. Or was it a game, payback for the betrayal, lull Arthur back into security and then rip his heart out. He deserved it, whatever wicked punishment John had waiting, he would take it, he owed him that much. 

Arthur stopped at the barber's, his long straggly hair cut neat and short, a razor fading the edges, he looked like a different man. He then went to the tailors, picked up some new clothes for himself and a little yellow dress for Rose, they had to look respectable if they were going to travel unnoticed. Returning, he presented the dress to the girl, who hugged him gratefully. _Yellow is my favourite colour,_ she said. It spiked in his chest, a memory lost in all the others, the yellow rose he once gifted her, did she remember. _Probably not_, he shook the thought, he was a stranger to both of them. Retelling the past was no more than reciting poetry written by another, the prose sounded likeable but meant little to them and their current predicament.

Arthur cooked dinner, it was the least he could do for his unsuspecting hosts. He mused that the pair were fine gentlemen, the type of men Dutch aspired to be, hiding in plain sight, knowing more of the world than those around them. Acquiring finery and knowledge in equal measure, secure in their own skins. He couldn’t show enough gratitude to the two men for taking John in when he had no one and nothing, because Arthur betrayed him. The crippling thought was quelled by a treacherous one, Arthur imagining that he and John could live as Theodore and Joseph did, no gang to worry about.

Theodore and Joseph returned, and they all sat like a family discussing their days. Compliments were given to Arthur's new look and Rose's new dress. John smirked at Arthur's blush when Joseph called him handsome; still couldn't take a compliment. The factory fire was mentioned in passing, but neither man appeared to link it with the brothers turning up on their doorstep. They retired for one more night of rest, tomorrow the journey would begin. St-Denis to Valentine by train, stop over and then on to Big Valley the place John was insistent on referring to as home.

*****

Arthur was on edge; John could tell watching as he stiffly moved to the counter and ordered the train tickets. That or his new tailored clothes were uncomfortable, he looked radiant in the shirt and jacket, but that wasn't Arthur, more content appearing as a bum than a man of wealth. He sighed with relief as he heard him ask for three tickets. They hadn't discussed at what point Arthur would leave them, sensing the gang playing on his mind, were they safe? Did they escape? He didn't want to raise it, scared any mention may shift his focus away from them and back to the gang, loyal to what matters.

The train journey was long, they all took a while to settle, every shuffle of a door had Arthur flinching as his eyes darted expecting to find the law. It was only as the left Rhodes and Lemoyne entirely; they relaxed. States were not good and notifying each other, or helping in capturing each other's wanted. They had their own issues to deal with.

As the light faded across the plains of the heartlands, John read a story to Rose, she snarled at first, pointing out she was more than capable of reading to herself. It was only when he started to playfully act the voices, she relented and cuddled in. Arthur watched as she curled her small hands into his jacket, her golden locks showering down across his chest. It was hard to see initially through the pouting and barbed words, but they had a bond, a special one. Arthur busied his hands, capturing the two of them together in his journal. Confident he would record the moment John became a father, became better than him.

*****

They arrived in Valentine late, the hotel had been telegrammed in advance, and their rooms were waiting. John and Rose nattered softly as they walked up the stairs. A yawn left her lips as John swooped her up and carried her into the hotel.

"You two get settled, I am going to check on the horses," Arthur said. He hadn't found Boadicea in St-Denis, assumed the gang had rescued her and taking her back to camp. He telegrammed ahead asking the livery to put aside two horses and a cart for their onward journey. Sure, enough two sturdy shires were penned in, grazing, waiting for his arrival. He fed them a few treats to distract them as he checked them over. They were good stock, going to cost a pretty penny but John was worth it.

John sat on the bed next to Rose, her blue eyes sleepy, watching him as she resisted sleep. Caressing her cheek, he placed a kiss on her forehead. "Time for sleep, madam," he said

"Thank you for rescuing me." She stuttered. He paused, gratitude was not something he was expecting not yet or ever. He kissed Rose's forehead again, 

"I love you, Rose, it's my job to keep you safe." She smiled, rolled her eyes and fell asleep. John stayed for a while, watching her in peaceful slumber, overcome with a feeling of purpose. He had been searching for his whole life and finally found a reason to be good. Rose made him want to be good.

An hour passed in minutes, but there was no sign of Arthur. A creeping sense of Deja vu, being left to figure out survival on his own as Arthur ran back to Dutch. His gut twisted, they were safe now, out of danger, the journey back to Big Valley only a day's ride away. Had the outlaws focus shifted, Rose and John no longer the priority. His mind was torn between accepting Arthur gone because it was Arthur after all and screaming that he could never leave him, not without saying goodbye. A tear rolled down his cheek, the crippling drive to survive quelled the intensity of their reunion, but now they were safe it washed over him again. His dam was filling once again, making him breathless as he sunk, drowning.

He ran outside, the street empty, he swivelled, up or down, left or right, could he catch him before he left or was he already too far away. The livery was shrouded in darkness, only the tinkling of ivory and the laughter of drunks confirmed he was still alive, that he wasn’t stuck in a nightmare he couldn’t get out of. Arthur was gone, again. He headed for the livery, was stopped in his tracks by a gentle snore. There under the softest gaslight was his outlaw, legs crossed as he leaned against a post, next to two horses. The dam burst, water emptied, he could breathe again.

"You are the only man I know who can sleep on his feet." He said as he wrapped his arms around his thick torso. Enthralled by the comfort of holding him, feeling his back against his chest.

"What have I told you about sneaking up on people, I could've shot you!" Arthur said automatically, surprised to find himself in a loving embrace.

"You are getting slow old man, ten years ago I wouldn't have got five paces without you waking," John whispered mockingly into his ear.

"I knew it was you, I could smell you." Arthur retorted, chuckling, the old ones were always the best.

"Come on, cowboy, bed." John slapped him on his ass cheek to confirm the command. Arthur turned to see the smirk on John's face. Realising for the first time that he wasn't playing a game. Perhaps it was fear, John unable to calm while they were in St Denis. Now they were safe, he was different, flirty. His eyes bulged; John was flirting with him.

"I'll sleep on the floor." Arthur rolled out his bedroll. Determined to enforce space between them, now he was sure of John's intentions, he couldn't allow himself to fall, he had to be strong for the pair of them.

"Plenty of room in the bed." John patted the space next to him, his eyes warm and wanting. Arthur bit his lip, his body screaming for him to accept the offer, his mind hesitant. Could they really do this to themselves again, after last time? The scars were still visible. He sheepishly joined him on the bed, his hands firmly stuck to his chest, trembling slightly. Fearing he might touch or caress skin unintentionally, awaken temptation and lust, he wasn't ready. John was less restrained, his hands winding their way across his torso as his leg rested on his thigh. _Too close_ Arthur sensed a twitch brewing in his groin and moved slightly. The act did not go unnoticed, John's eyes rolled with disappointment at the rejection. Arthur wanted to ignore it but couldn't hide from that pouting face.

"What?" He huffed

"Do you think I am selfish?" John asked. Arthur rolled his eyes, not this game again. If there was one thing he hadn't missed in the past four years it was the never knowing what was really on John's mind, where his thoughts were leading. It always left him in a tangled mess, the blind spot, did he really want to pull at that string? He glanced at him, spying his pleading doe eyes needing reassurance.

"No, you are not selfish, you can do selfish things, but that is mostly through self-preservation," Arthur confirmed.

"You always put others first," John reasoned, Arthur shuffled uncomfortably, where was this going.

"To always do something, whether good or bad, is an absolute, no one should live their life that way. Look how it turned out for me; if I had been selfish when it mattered life might have been different." Arthur squeezed a light hug, hoping that would be the end of it. John thought on his words, was Arthur changing, had he changed, moved slightly, moved away from his old ideology. Could John win him back, was he a prize to be gained?

"You worried about them?" John asked. Arthur rubbed his chin, thinking, he was trying hard not to think about the gang, there was nothing he could do until John and Rose were safe back in Big Valley, they came first.

"Hosea and Charles got out early on, the rest counted out but who knows." He was glad the two most important people were well away, although Charles had been shot. He was also scared for the kid Lenny, he was a good gun but shouldn't be anywhere near the gang, he was too smart for their life. All these people are woven into his thoughts; John had no idea who they were. John hadn't even asked about Mary-Beth, the poor girl was stuck with them because of his moronic invite. Arthur could feel his blood burning, not talking about the gang was preferable. He thought his silence was through worry, but it was a sore spot, one he hadn't identified before. John didn't just leave him, he abandoned the gang, abandoned the people who loved him most. That angered Arthur; if he could do that, then what else was he capable of. John failed to register the anguish building in Arthur.

"And Dutch?" John said. Arthur got up, sat on the side of the bed, away from John, who was lining himself up for a punch in the jaw. Of course, this is where the game was leading to, John didn't care about the gang, or him, he just wanted to know about Dutch, not Hosea the man who raised him or Susan who thought of him as a son, but Dutch.

"What about him?" Arthur said gruffly.

"You're worried about him, you can talk about him...you love him, Arthur," John asserted. John was trying to face the truth, be reasonable, John might have had a place in Arthur's heart, but he would always share it with Dutch; was it not better to be honest with each other? Was this not that a sign of maturity, asking how the other man who owned his heart was doing. Why was he trying to hide it? They both knew the truth, yet Arthur still felt compelled to pretend that it wasn't real. If Arthur could speak openly about Dutch and his feelings, then John would be able to admit to Giorgio, the other man who shared his heart. They would become equal, two men with two lovers. Arthur collapsed to floor rolled out his bedroll.

"Go to sleep, Marston." He commanded.


	21. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter I have written but I didn't want to split it in two, as always hope you enjoy you patient bunch.

John was home, naturally falling back into the ebb and flow, jumping from the cart, locating his key and unlocking the door. A note rested on the mat, John scanned it, Giorgio in one of his tantrums had taken himself and Clara off on a _romantic_ vacation. It was written to provoke him, coax a fit of jealousy. For the first time in two years, the envy that spiked his heart like cactus spines, prickly against the vital organ, was gone. A confident smile crossed his face, the three-roomed shell he called home, was really a dwelling for his bones to rest. The two people who remained steadfastly stuck to the cart, unsure of their status, waiting for an invite, would cross the threshold and make it a real home. John did nothing to alleviate the situation, he returned to the cart retrieving the goods they brought from Valentine. Busying himself putting the food away conscious that the pair had yet to move from the perceived sanctuary of the wagon. It began to alarm him, how degraded the relationships he treasured the most had become. He was determined not to invite them in as no invite was required.

"It's a mighty cold night to stay outside?" He chortled. They glanced at each other, ignoring John as though he were a bystander, searching for reassurance in their mutual unease. It was sweet, how they already trusted each other implicitly, to the point John was a mere observer. Permitted to participate when they saw fit, an outsider, the other, accommodated into their long-standing relationship that only started two days prior. Rose and Arthur were broken, that is why they sought comfort with each other and not him, but he was committed to fixing them both.

John focussed on making the beds, a mundane, monotonous task he was glad of. He could hear the silence beckoning from the other room. Arthur and Rose's discomfort to their new setting jolted uncomfortably against John's own ease. He opened the door, finding Rose, blue-eyed and docile awaiting his focus, she tugged at his shirt. John missed that tug, demanding his attention. He leant down, expecting a scold, a frown of discontent, instead he received a kiss on the cheek, sweet and soft.

"Night, John." She said sleepily. Rose quickly sought sanctuary in her new bedroom, crawling between the crisp, clean sheets, cradling her knees to her chest to provide comfort. She stuttered a few breaths of uncertainty before falling tranquilly asleep. With one sceptic seemingly relenting to their new reality John took a deep breath, preparing himself for battle with the older, harder, doubter. The man who had never shown any capacity to change. They hadn't spoken much, nothing about the argument, nothing about the gang or Dutch. John resigned himself, that relationship was out of bounds, not up for discussion. That was the answer, don't speak, both were awful with words, especially around each other. To speak would usher in another quarrel, remain mute and reveal the truth through touch.

Arthur's frame rested against the counter, his gun belt, jacket and hat removed. He was visibly looser, the weight of his persona expelled leaving just the man himself, attempting to make himself at home. His blue shirt billowed loosely, untucked below the belt, a few buttons carelessly undone, revealing the smallest tuft of blonde chest hair. The sight of him made John's hairs stand on end, tickling against his skin. John smirked at this attempt at aloofness, he couldn't hide from John, not after all these years. He was stiff, tense with nerves and fear, his eyes pools of ocean blue pleaded with hope as his nails dug into the counter. He was being hunted, trembling slightly as his bashful blush pinched at his cheek, submitting to the lustful opulence of the wolfish glare.

Arthur's full flushed mouth pursed, the slightest bead of sweat sat tantalising on the stubble, its path blocked by the rim of his quivering top lip, he was hot with stress. John mused, imagining the taste of that shimmering moisture again, to savour him once more. Did he still taste the same, part whisky, tobacco and that woody earthiness that was peculiar to him? The aroma of damp pine needles after a light shower. So many walks around Big Valley breathing in the pines, trying to capture his scent, willing it to emerge, just a trace, so he could drown in his intoxicating aroma, it never lived up to his memory. But now he didn't require thought, recollection, he was real again, stood in his kitchen, against his counter, waiting for his kiss.

John flew, skittish on his sharp hips, not taking a breath as he plunged, pushing hard into his deep steamy lips, licking the moisture, he tasted the same, like home. He expected to be pushed away, would revel, spending the night fighting, pleading until Arthur relented to the inevitable. But Arthur met his ferocity, their hands clutching and ripping trying hard to expose skin. Arthur always the dominant was not used to John's force, the weight he gained, all muscle, pinning him brutally against the counter. His pulsating cock strangled against John's thick thigh as it pushed against him. He yelped; a surge of electricity hit him. His fingers digging with bruising power, pulled John's thighs up, John obliged wrapping his legs around, locking in, he missed being manhandled. He pushed back, the pair landing against the table, the clatter of a bottle rolled almost falling on the floor, John quick as a flash caught it.

"Shhh... don't wake, Rose." He said, aware it didn't need saying. John snatched a look from Arthur that is instantly suppressed, shame or weakness, no, undeserving, doubt etched in every fibre that he didn't deserve to be touched. A new sensation edged up John's skin, Arthur needs this, needs to feel special, John suppressed his wants, making Arthur the focus. John rewarded him by stroking his hand, tantalisingly up his rock-hard cock. Arthur buried his face in John's neck as a sound so needy in its pleading leaves his ravished lips. 

John slowed the pace, guiding him to the cold wooden floor. There was a perfectly serviceable bed, clean and made not a few moments before. They could not give themselves space, now together the thought of breaking apart so soon was too implausible. Awash with crippling need, driven to feel and taste that, which had been denied for so long. 

It was a fumble, lowering their trousers, dropping their draws. Too hungry to achieve full nakedness. Their members once released throbbed with anticipation. John wrapped his hand around both, trapping them together, his coarse, rough hand feeling the slick veined throb damp from their pool of wetness. He wished this could last forever, make-up for lost time, but Arthur's muffled moans, rolling eyes and leaking manhood signalling this will be over quickly.

The struggle, a mixture of violent heady desire and longing loving union, paused. Arthur lost the fight he wasn't aware he was participating in. Not since their first kiss when John's eagerness sent them kicking over a log had he found himself stripped of control. This time was different, the smouldering eyes of his former lover didn't portray a hint of doubt. Still, they paused, a question asked and unanswered for so long. Arthur grabbed his wrist, panic surging through him, he suspected but wasn't sure.

"You don't...." he was stopped short. His heart lodged in his mouth at the possibility, could he, would he, allow himself to submit.

"I want to... want to show you I can," John said with pride. Arthur tried to remain composed, managing the twitch of jealousy that coursed through his veins. He relented, he had no claim or right, not after how they parted. He groaned filthy for it but couldn't stomach the images that now flowed freely. Giorgio, the beautiful, cruel man, was gifted the first and probably many after, definitely still gifted the sensation that should have rightfully been his. John took his unease as concern for himself, Arthur always worrying for others. He would show him he knew what to do. Proving he was worthy of this task. Ready for its meaning.

Arthur nodded too muted by John's glaring lust. John's hips brutally push against his tender thighs as he pushes for one last kiss, licking his swollen lips. Then debauched and lewd he puts his fingers in Arthur's mouth, groans wantonly as Arthur obliges, running his tongue hungrily across the length of the digits. Studying Arthur's face, his brow furrowed, blushing, conflicted as his body betrays him, revealing his actual wants to the shame of his determined stoic features. John grins, pleased with himself, determined to make Arthur flinch and grimace as he delivers wave after wave of pleasure.

He navigated downwards, ripping Arthur's shirt open, buttons popping. John didn't care, Arthur wasn't comfortable in the tailored shirt, his body trembling to be free. John's mouth tailored a more fitting garment, one made of bites and bruises as he mercilessly kissed his path towards Arthur's waiting cock. A patchwork of depraved marks to be remembered by, sowing his nails down his chest, red raised bumps instantly forming. Arthur cried for sweet release at John tuned his body like a master plucking his favourite violin with expert precision. Discovering rhythms and tunes with every hook of his poised bow, a melody of ecstasy Arthur wasn't even aware he could achieve. John ignored Arthur's engorged throbbing member, it danced wildly on its own, ready to blow. The slightest touch could ruin his carefully thought out plans, it provoked a cry of frustration from Arthur. John burned with intense heat from the sounds Arthur was making, vulnerable, needy, weak, pleading in a grumbled slavering mess.

"You are going to make me come if you keeping making those sounds." John threatened.

"Isn't that the point." Arthur groaned weakly as he rolled into another wave of tortured bliss.

John moved his head between his thick thighs, clouded with hair leading to his darkened ring, pulsing with anticipation. He playfully caressed the hole, circling, making it glisten with his moisture identical to his swollen lips. Arthur moaned softly under the torturous touch, his balls tightened flush to his skin, his cock bobbing frantically leaking across his naked torso.

"John. I… Can't" Arthur protested, wrecked, trying to hold on.

"Not yet, Arthur. Stay with me." John mockingly patted his chest in comfort, Arthur's eyes shoot with killer vibes but instantly scrunching them closed as John penetrates his finger into him. John's breath catches, his brain unravelling, to touch inside Arthur, his unprotected channel, clenching, fighting. He glances up, watching the heaving chest, jerking arms, he was fully exposed to him. Rebelling against the vulnerability, as it washes in waves of tinted red. Crawling from his face, neck, down his chest, arriving at his thighs. John slides another finger in, absorbing the shudder, Arthur clenching his fists in his hair. His breathing edgy as it rattles, his face a creasing crumpled mess of aggression, handsome in his reluctance. Arthur still trying to retain a modicum of dignity was at odds with his greedy hole that consumed his fingers. John mesmerised as Arthur opens himself up wider, greedily rocking his hips in time with John's own rhythm. Arthur wild and shameless was an image he would keep forever, stored for those lonely nights. His face lights up with accepting glee, he didn't have to bank the memory, they will never be apart again, John would recreate this every night if he was allowed.

John removes his fingers scared Arthur was becoming lost in the stimulation, there was plenty of time to come from touch alone, this couldn't be one of them. Arthur couldn't release until John was inside him, that was the rule forming in his head.

"John!" he pleads in full blistering need. "God, don't stop."

"I am here" John whispers, unable to delay it any longer, two will have to do. Arthur's breathing becomes harsh, unable to cope with the agony of denial. John quickly lubes himself with his own spit, this is going to hurt.

"I need it, John." Arthur quakes. John almost loses himself then and there, to hear Arthur beg, it was a revelation, one that would have to be explored another time. 

He pushed, they trembled, Arthur almost deflated, his lungs full with frustrated need let go of a long, satisfying mewl of completeness. The return of innocence, to regain that which was lost so long ago. The shaking a sign it was surreal, the past melting away, leaving them with now and only now. John didn't take his eyes from Arthur, the intensity, the pressure, feeling every twitch and spasm of his muscle as it relaxed around his shaft. He wanted to be slow and tender, watch his expression change through each thrust. Pressing into him until they are joined wholly, deep in his body, cradled between his thick thighs.

John couldn't move so overcome with the romance of knowing Arthur for the first time, genuinely knowing him. Arthur peaked, almost on the edge of pain as his body screamed for action. He unclenched his eyelids, distraught by the vision before him, doe eyes staring back, a sharp smile crossed his face, typical Marston. Arthur was going to have to lead, his maiden too enthralled with the sentiment of the moment. Arthur was not playing, pulsing with aggression from the torture bestowed on him. Wrapping his legs around John's sharp hips, he forced him forward, deep, fixing his rabid gaze on John who unconsciously relinquished control of the pace. Unyielding and fast, it ravaged his insides, burning as he forced John to thrust deeper and deeper with unrelenting speed.

Arthur stifled his moans, determined not to break, focussing on his impending release. John glistening with sweat, his raven hair sticking to his forehead, lost in the exertion. Not taking their eyes off each other, arguing, though no words were spoken. John was overcome by force, the strength emitting from his muscular thighs as they turned John into a rag doll. Even in submission, Arthur still retained all the power. John began pleading with Arthur to slow down, he couldn't last at this speed. His voice gravel was wrecked, Arthur didn't deserve this beautiful wildling, all sweat, sinew and bones, formed perfectly, cradled in his mass.

Arthur was a coiled spring, determined to make John climax, lightning flashing across his face every time John probes. Then without warning, John shifted slightly changing the angle and Arthur explodes like a wagon of dynamite. His stomach pulls in, muscles rippling under strain, the world is still and calm, peaceful. Everything he wants and needs, desire and fear, love and loss. His head flops as he releases John's hips, who takes the chance to exude control once again. It didn't matter, Arthur's limp, lifeless body absorbed every thrust, he was aware he was moving but felt nothing, nothing but pure bliss. His hooded eyes watched intently as John stuttered to his own climax. If he had the power of speech, he would tell him that no one has ever made him feel this good, this boneless and gooey. He felt like a child utterly devoid of fear, worry, concern his mind was empty and warm and tingly and fun and silly.

A cry of ecstasy bounced off the walls as John released himself in Arthur, who became a mumbled sweaty mess under him. John collapsed, exhausted, onto Arthur's chest, cradling himself in security as he drifted. Arthur pinned and breathless, a moist mop of black hair tickling his oversensitive skin. He wanted to sail with him, let the romance wrap around his bones as it had done for John. He couldn't shake the gnawing of regret, John now an expert in pushing all the right buttons. Cruelly confident in the art of tantalising denial, hadn't learnt his trade with Arthur.

"Why are you on the floor?" Her quaking voice called from the doorway. Arthur shook, had they been asleep. The movement waking John, who was none the wiser they had been caught. Their eyes met, Arthur's blown with fear, as he nodded to the doorway. John peered around the table leg, spying her tiny frame, he scuttled behind the table as he pulled his pants up, in the hope he hadn't been seen. They shot glances to each other, debating without words who was responsible. Arthur cocked his head slightly in a knowing disdain, _you will pay for this later_, he thought to himself. John coyly bit his lip, accepting _he will make me pay for this late_r. Abandoning Arthur in no man's land, trapped naked, the table concealing his modesty couldn't hide the raging blush that crossed his cheeks. 

"It's ok sweet girl, I just Ummm.... silly uncle Arthur dropped something and then fell over, on his back," Arthur stammered. His eyes shot back to John, trying to read his expression, it didn't help, John was creased with silent laughter watching his outlaw squirm.

"Do you need help?" Rose said, running towards him.

"No!" They said in unison, John reacting without thinking, popping his head above the table. "It's ok darling, I am helping him get up...you go back to bed, and I will come and tuck you in."

"Ok" Rose responded, she frowned, perplexed by how weird they were acting. The door closed. John collapsed on Arthur's chest, roaring with laughter, tears emitting freely from his eyes.

"You truly are a prized idiot," Arthur grumbled, pushing John off him.

"I have never seen you so embarrassed, you were redder than a chilli-pepper." He coughed choking on the hilarity. "Actually, that's a lie you went that colour when you were fucking yourself on my fingers." Arthur's eyes shone bright with murderous intent which made John laugh more.

"Well, at least I faced her and didn't try and hide; what must she be thinking?" Arthur sat up, incensed that John could laugh at such an intimate revealing of himself, his back twinging, at least he would appear to have injured himself in a fall.

"She will think her Uncle Arthur is a clumsy buffoon." John met his glare and licked his lips. "Now, why don't you make yourself comfortable in bed and I will help you clean up when I have seen to Rose." He said seductively, his eyes were alive with lust as he kissed Arthur's swollen lips. Arthur pushed him away, pulling himself up from the floor, cursing what he had ever done to deserve John _bloody_ Marston back in his life.

"Oh, Arthur," John called after him. "I think Uncle suits you." He smiled as Arthur grumbled in protest from the other room.

He closed her bedroom door behind him, confident this time that she was asleep. He didn't allow time for protest, his wants bubbling like a pot boiling over on a hot stove. Sensing his slumber, Arthur resting but still aroused was at his mercy, exactly where he wanted him. He quietly undressed not to disturb him. The creak of the bed stirring him, his weight shifting across the mattress as he lay next to his resting body. 

"John!" He yelped tensing.

"What Arthur?" He responded coyly,

"What are you doing?" He growled as he tried to unsheathe himself from John's long finger.

"I want to admire my work," John smirked, as he flexed his finger in the hot wet hole of Arthur, amazed how much of his release was still in there.

"You are something else" he snarled, pushing his hand away. It was too much, still too sensitive.

"I had a good teacher." John smiled, complimenting Arthur. Unintentionally crushing his heart, whatever John was doing it wasn't taught by him. John could sense his distance, recoiling, their moment passing as normal proceeding resumed. When he was younger, he would have allowed it, being pushed back out. A wicked smile crossed his face as he thought how to push his buttons, rile him up so they could light the spark that made their connections explosive.

"Arthur?" John said, playfully. Innocently twirling the few chest hairs, the outlaw claimed to have.

"What?" Arthur responded cautiously, that tone signalled danger, mainly for him.

"Did you ever want me to call you, daddy?" He looked up eager to see his response, expecting heat and anger, that rage that turned him on so much.

"Where did you learn that term?" was his cold response.

"You know what it means?" John said, surprised.

"Yes, I am not into it." Arthur huffed. "And we had enough barriers to overcome without adding extra, don't you think."

"I would have called you daddy" John proclaimed. "Would have done anything to make you happy." Arthur groaned the sentiment, it was warming, but with all these things, it's not about submission to the others wants, it had to be balanced. Would it have made John happy to call him that, he hoped not? Instead, this was his first opportunity to find out more, would he admit to Giorgio, was that where he learnt it or somewhere even worse.

"Did you learn it down the docks?" Arthur probed.

"No!" He shot up panicked, straddling Arthur to keep him pinned. "I never went back there, Arthur, I promise." He clung tightly to his biceps; terrified Arthur would be mad. Arthur was transfixed, his John, strong, young man, had him pinned with his muscles, still needed to prove himself, still needed reassurance. He visibly changed, became younger. 

"It's ok" He kissed his lips to reassure him. "You're a man now, you can handle yourself in those places." He brushed his hair from his face so he could see his alluring features clearly.

"Is that where you learn the term, down the docks?" John asked.

"Yes," Arthur trembled, he knew the response wouldn't be enough for John. Always had to dig, exposing him to judgement. John waited intently, watching him grimace.

"You ain't the only one who does stupid things sometimes." Arthur's breath raked as he thought about it. "I wasn't in a good place, being tied up and abused by men who wanted me to call them daddy felt like something I deserved."

"You didn't like it?" John whispered, respecting Arthur's discomfort. Arthur shook his head softly, his eyes glazed over, teary, another regret for a life poorly lived. "I didn't have an older brother looking out for me."

"If I knew I would have come in shooting until everyone was dead." John was resolute, cupping Arthur's face in his hands, pulling a weak smile from the older man.

"Only I wouldn't have freed you" John smiled wickedly. "The thought of you tied up and at my mercy is making me hard."

"John!" Arthur chuckled at his perverted honesty.

"I want you, Arthur, inside of me!" He pleaded, rocking with anticipation on his meaty thighs. Feeling that pulse throb in his hand once again, its long hard length was a natural fit in his palm, like a worn glove rediscovering the fingers that were lost for so long.

No protest left the outlaws lips, his grey eyes, hooded, watching intently, as the finely taut curves fluidly moved over him. John lowered himself forcefully straight down, without pause or hesitation. They gasped together the pressure so tight, it must have hurt. Still, he didn't whimper or grimace, their symbiosis essential for survival, denied, thrived once again. Arthur flew up, his muscular arms seizing him, savouring the shuddering moment of penetration, almost a tantalising orgasm in itself. A tickling reminder of how explosive release in John could be. He found the scar, located too near to his heart, he trembled, how close he came to losing him. He kissed, licked, caressed every raised bump, the pellets sprinkled across the skin and then the knife marks rudely placed to ensure removal as quickly as possible. The scar, scary, terrifying, was beautiful, any blemish or mark of imperfection was perfection because it belonged to him.

John's tingled, the skin mapped by Arthur's tongue hurt every day since it happened, waiting for those lips to heal it. He rolled his hips, the intensity delivered more than arousal, it made him sing, it felt different. He collapsed his head on Arthur's shoulder in grief. His body yearning for him to continue his mind pleading for him to slow, savour every sensation as if it were their last. Desiring their bond in flesh to last for eternity fearing it would barely be a heartbeat in their story.

Arthur understood, without a word spoken, he sensed his conflict. Not on right or wrong, yes or no, but conflicted to live in the moment or place it in the context of forever. He smiled in reassurance. He was not so black and white, not so all or everything. This was a scene in their tapestry that will be woven, laced, with all the others that will tell the story of two boys holding hands as they walked this world together, never alone. That tapestry will hang in the stars for all to view until there are no longer eyes to see.

Their skin heated, their breath visible in the fresh night air as they moaned and groaned profanities. Their bodies locked and entwined as they rolled profoundly, wave after wave went as they succumbed unable to close themselves to the inevitable. 

Moving his tongue from the scar and to his lips. The kiss slow, delicate. John rolled his hips, crying out as the pressure shot through every nerve. Speak, his eyes cried out, speak you fool, he begged, pleaded. He was left wanting, searching for the words that did not come. How to encapsulate a feeling so deep, so unnerving and uncontrolled it removes all expression and meaning. He inhaled deeply, this was not a failing, he wasn't failing, it was the words did not exist, they hadn't been invented. Speech so eloquent, inflected with meaning wasn't developed enough to represent their bond. He took a second-deep breath, rolled his hips and finally spoke

"I never stopped..." John gasped as his skin electrified from the sensation.

"Never stopped loving you" he cried out, the end coming sooner than he wanted.

"Not for one second." He declared as he rolled into orgasm. Arthur held him tight as he shuddered into his own climax. Gripping his shoulders as he bottomed out completely, allowing every drop to be released deep within his lover. They gasped for air, as the chill wrapped around them. Their post-orgasmic glow disseminating between them as they held on, neither able to let go and to view each other entirely. Arthur's head resting on John's shoulder, his hands moving deftly over John's hypersensitive skin. His mouth was stuck, dry, unable to respond to John's declaration. What to say that hadn't been performed in their act of lovemaking, he and John had just made love to each other, that was enough.


	22. Remembering (Part 1)

John's long lashes flickered, an ache pulsed through him, fascinated by its familiarity. Still, he regretted his eagerness from the night before. His desire for nothing to come between them, not even the sticky substance of lubrication would be paid for in winces and chokes of pain. Especially, as it had been so long since he was on the receiving end. His lips curled slightly, remembering the last time he was taken, he'd been faithful in the only way that mattered. One man had the satisfaction of owning the most intimate part of him, of hearing the cries that can only be drawn from such deep stimulation. Did Arthur recognise from his act of submission that he was the only one?

The cool shades of dawn peeked through the window, waiting for the tint of orange and yellows to radiate life back into the world. The darkness subsiding, John stuttered a satisfying breath of contentment, his world had colour again. Arthur gave him that colour, the warmth and love provided from security. He rolled over gently, trying not to wake him, wanting the peace to study his face at rest. Arthur had got older, little lines were forming where they hadn't been before. His forehead was the worst, every time his eyes narrowed in anger, three distinct lines would appear. In his sleep, they were almost invisible. His eyes had little crows' feet, but only when he laughed. He adored Arthur's laugh, that belly rumbling confidence, it was infectious unless you were the punchline, then it smarted. He gained more freckles, the sun kissing along his nose and his cheeks. He earned the odd blemish and nick but nothing that needed to be questioned in great detail. He was relatively intact, considering the life he was still leading. 

"John, I know you are staring at me." He said, in his sly _caught you in the act_ tone.

"Just wanted to check you were real?" John responded, unabashed and unashamedly smitten.

"Can you try and do it quietly" Arthur complained. "I am trying to sleep like most right-minded people do in the middle of the night."

"It’s dawn Arthur, most people are waking up!" John disputed confidently.

"Well, I guess I ain't most people," Arthur grumbled, rolling onto his side away from his adoring lover. "But I can guarantee most Outlaws are asleep." Arthur leant over and lifted the fabric of the next curtains. "Ah as I suspected, I can still see stars, so I will also challenge your interpretation of dawn." A few stuttered snores emitted from the outlaw as he was drifting, John remained poised in ready to continue his study, this time of his back. Those blades were hard-working, supporting his toned muscular arms.

"John!" Arthur shouted, "If you're awake, go and make breakfast, your man needs feeding." He was intentionally flippant, if John was going to act like a lovesick woman, he could behave like one, route to a man’s heart was through his stomach. John couldn't help but bite his lip coyly, _your man_ it meant more because Arthur said it, which meant he believed it. John stopped himself interpreting further, dreaming of being introduced as each other's men, _this is my man. _Unfortunately, this wasn't the lovey dovely exploration of feelings he was hoping for, Arthur inferring he was the woman couldn't go unchecked.

"Showing your age Morgan" John led back on the bed. "The emancipation of women from the shackles of the homestead is a hot topic at the moment."

"Well, la dee dah," Arthur responded to the rather intelligent, if not utterly unrelated remark. "Lucky you're a man, and no one's trying to emancipate you."

"Besides, you should be the one making me breakfast!" John countered

"Why is that?" Arthur said regretting it instantly, this was another one of those traps John lured him in with.

"Because you are bigger," John said as a statement of fact. Arthur cracked a curious eye at the declaration, he shifted his weight, rolling over to face John, accepting that going back to sleep was off the menu. Apparently, breakfast wasn't forthcoming either. What any of that had to do with the size of his manhood was too intriguing to ignore. Arthur positioned himself ready like a scientist studying a newly discovered creature, Johns mind was an anthropologist's wet dream. John could feel he was setting himself up for ridicule, he should have let him sleep and made the damn breakfast, something he was actually quite good at.

"Stands to reason," John said. "I hurt more because you are bigger and I need to recuperate." He fluttered his eyelashes and shot him a glance of sympathetic need. "You need to take care of me." Arthur chuckled, John was pathetic at being alluring if he forced it, he looked disturbed.

"Size ain't got nothing to do with it!" Arthur said, deciding his position on the matter and defending it, breakfast was at stake "It's dependent on how practised you are."

"Are you calling me a whore?" John shot back instantly.

"No! that's not what I said." Arthur grumbled, it was hard to have reasoned debate with John, he always took it personally. "Just it makes sense…. I don't know" He stuttered finding the right words, the words that didn't allude to his knowledge of Giorgio. "That you have probably practised more than I have in the last four year."

"I bet you I haven't." John leapt onto Arthur's plank body, pinning him in excitement. They would have to reveal personal information about each other. Not something that had ever gone according to plan in the past, if he was playful, it could work. If that went well, was accepted amicably by Arthur, he might be able to broach the topic of Giorgio. "You tell me your number, and I will tell you mine," He said, squeezing his knees against Arthurs's ribs.

"John," Arthur said, slightly defeated. He wished there was a number, almost wished he had been a bit looser in the past four years, it would be easier than reliving the memory of the last time.

"Come on, Arthur loser makes breakfast," John said with all the eagerness of a puppy with a new chew toy. He was determined not to make breakfast and to find out how many men had claimed what was rightfully his. If he could get names, he would shoot them all. No one but John should have the vision of Arthur looks losing control, it was too erotic to be shared.

"Fine." Arthur relented. "Zero, nothing, the last time with… was the last time." He couldn't bear to say Dutch's name, nor incite any conversation about that night. He could read John's expression, the hurt bubbling below the surface, he knew what he was talking about. John could read his distress written in those fine frown lines on his brow, the sadness in his eyes, he still blamed himself for what happened. He couldn't let them descend into raking over the past, reopening old wounds not with breakfast at stake.

"Ha!" John said, gleefully. "I win!" Arthur bulked at the admission, clearly a lie.

"How do you win?" He said, releasing the pain, victory was more important.

"My last time, was our last time" John declared. "Well before last night, anyway." He clarified, "Which if I have my dates right was before your last time." Arthur lit up like a firework, was he serious? But John was too forthright and honest to lie about most things, especially that. Warming to the idea that he was the only man that had claimed him, he kissed John sloppily on the lips. John stuttered another contented sigh, at least he understood the significance, could forgive him for being so soppy and sweet. But this was Arthur, the man who didn't like to lose.

"So, you haven't let another man…" He winked a gesture. "In the last four years."

"No," John beamed with pride. "You are the only one."

"But what about objects?" Arthur smirked knowingly. John's face sunk instantly, feeling victory snatched cruelly from him.

"Objects?" John tried playing dumb, but his grimacing face gave him away, he was trying to work out how Arthur knew.

"Yeah you know, those funny shaped things, usually come in a box of three, all different sizes." Arthur's smile was demonic as he watched the steam release from his lover's ears. "I assumed the set was a gift from Beth." John's eyes blew his secret stash under his bed. Of course, they would have found them, he never considered. 

"You should have seen Grimshaw's face when she opened the box." Arthur rolled with excitement. "It took her a few seconds to work out what she was looking at but when she did…" Arthur collapsed into a belly laugh, remembering, even when they set about the sad task of sorting out his stuff, he still managed to provide joy.

"The whole camp was laughing for days, couldn't stop finding innuendos to wind her up with." A creeping pink blush crossed John's face as he realised, thinking about the gang laughing at him. He had been technically rumbled and through default of his own touching, making him more practised than Arthur.

"Admit it!" Arthur said, needing confirmation to seal his victory. John shook his head in defiance, kicking himself for not firming up the rules of the bet before they began to play.

“So, if I reach into that draw, I won't find a set of objects for your pleasure." Arthur was emitting the most gorgeous smile as he watched John squirm. John remained reticent, not willing to admit anything, it was too embarrassing, as always. 

"No Arthur," He squealed, as Arthur leant over him to the bedside table. John's fingers pressing tightly to stop it from opening. Arthur pushed his weight down, trapping John so he couldn't fight and with his unyielding force pulled the draw open.

"Good God, John!" Arthur cried out in surprise.

"It's not what it looks like." John pleaded. The draw was bursting with peculiarities of all different shapes and sizes he had picked up on his travels. It became an obsession for a while, not so much now, but he couldn't think of a safe way of disposing of them.

"That is one hell of collection you got there." Arthur laughed, bemused and a little impressed to the extent these things existing and that John, idiot John, managed to be in possession of them. "Didn't fancy cigarette cards as a hobby?" Arthur said jokingly.

"Please just close the draw," John said, burnt red with embarrassment. "I will make breakfast." Arthur did as he was told, sensing the discomfort coursing through his lover. He shifted himself back to his position. 

"Come here," He said softly. "Breakfast can wait." John was dragged over to Arthurs's chest, he curled up, hiding his face in the older man's torso too ashamed to look at him. Arthur threaded his fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm him. The air was full of tension, mostly John's, Arthur found it hilarious, _what a find!_ He wanted to make John feel secure, knew he should, but it was just too priceless a moment to let go.

"So, you sure your hurting from last night." He creased. "I am amazed you could feel me judging by the size of those things."

"Arthur!" John punched him in the ribs, trading his insecurity for rage. Arthur seized on it, pulling him closer.

"We could always have another go" Arthur winked. "Just to be sure."

John gingerly got up, leaving Arthur spread across the bed, snoring. He must have been exhausted, even John failed to be that active and he was ten years younger. Breakfast was the first order of the day, he wanted to nip into the yard to retrieve the mornings lay from the chickens. It was more of a crippling stumble, mimicking the movements of an old man with lumbago. The sharpness of each step sending shooting pains up his back. He couldn't wait for his outlaw to wake up, so they could share glances of appreciation in the mutual suffering.

John's doubts began to flow from the thought, what if he didn't feel the same? Abided the pain? Didn't have any pain at all? What if he didn't satisfy Arthur the same way Dutch did? In his haste to prove himself, he had not considered the comparison Arthur was now able to make. He pushed the thought; the poison could not seep in. To be gifted a second chance, pure serendipity or fate written in the stars, his insecurities could not spoil this opportunity. Rightly or wrongly, when he said the last time with Dutch was the last, he believed Arthur. He just didn't know why, what had happened, did Arthur feel like a hypocrite, the one thing he treasured most loyalty, did his disloyalty towards John usher in his abstinence. Stupid time be faithful after the horse has bolted.

In the Kitchen, he hummed as the air filled with the tempting aroma of fresh eggs and bacon. He could get used to this, waking early to prepare a meal for his family, he hummed louder at the thought.

"Morning," Rose grumbled her bare feet slapping along the varnished wood. She screeched a chair out from under the table, placing herself prepared and ready for breakfast.

"Good morning, Rose, did you sleep well?" He said trivially, caught up in his preparations.

"Were you and Arthur fighting last night?" she asked. John tensed; having not considered.

"No, we umm..." he served up breakfast as he pondered how to approach such a delicate topic. He was confident that any lie at this point would quickly come undone. They would all have to live together, while attempts at discretion were at the upmost priority, he couldn't promise they would never be heard.

"Rose, when two people love each other." He paused, watching as she demolished her eggs, almost swallowing them whole, the Jameson's failed to reign in her voracious appetite and appalling table manners. "Sometimes they sound like they are fighting, but it's just an expression of their love." He said. She scooped her beans, chomping like it was her last meal.

"Do you understand?" he said cautiously.

"Theodore and Joseph kissed each other, and I saw you and Arthur cuddling last night." John cringed, how much had she seen? The pair passed out on each other he could try and deflect but the rest of it that was something else. This was a good start, corrupting Rose's innocent mind with their _cuddling_. He mentally noted the next lesson, discretion. Her blue eyes fixated on him like he was a peculiar animal to be studied, she watched his eyes dart with anguish.

"It umm..." John mentally begged Arthur to wake up and rescue him.

"Do we have to cuddle like you an Arthur cuddle?" She said, attempting to ease his burden.

"What, no, why would you..." John's mind unravelled with terror,

"You said you loved me, and people who love each other kiss and cuddle and make noises like they are fighting." She frowned, completely confused by the whole conversation. 

"No, Rose! Only adults do that" he grabbed her wrist. "Promise me you will never do that, not with anyone." His face creased with agony, his voice gravel with anger, mostly at himself for digging such a huge hole and not having the fortitude to get himself out. The thought too unspeakable, how could she think like that. She began to cry, bawling as she retreated to her room.

"What the hell, John!" Arthur watched as she scurried into her room, slamming the door behind her.

"Arthur, she thinks, she thinks...I can't say." John retched at the thought

"Calm down, Marston," Arthur commanded.

"She wanted to know if I wanted to _cuddle_ her like we _cuddled_ last night." John quaked, Arthur, creased with laughter.

"And you thought shouting at her was the best approach, she is a confused kid." He said calmly, watching his lover unravel. "She probably just meant a cuddle and not a _cuddle_. God, I can't believe you are so bad at this." Arthur laughed again.

"I can't remember us cuddling much last night, do you?" John was indignant, he wasn't wrong, Rose might be confused behind the meaning, but he understood what she was asking.

"Even if she saw something." Arthur reasoned. "She wouldn't know what it meant."

"She does know what it means, Arthur, can we stop pretending she doesn't!" John shouted. He remembered being that age, once the curtain fell, there was no such thing as forgetting, no matter how hard adults tried to ignore or pretend it wasn't real.

"Joseph said she can't have children; the damage is too great." John crumbled, unable to keep such a secret from Arthur.

"When did you find that out?" Arthur snapped. Sensing this had been bubbling away for days, now it was spilling over an effecting Rose.

"When he finished checking her over." He trembled. "He said if I was going to take care of her, I needed to know." His eyes darted to Arthur, needing reassurance. "That is why she was in the rectory for so long because she needed to heal." He looked away, shame and fear coursing through his veins. He was so wrapped up in his own life back then, working with Theodore, falling for Giorgio. He never considered why Rose, his lovely Rose, needed more rest than the others. Preferred to read in bed than go out and play, she was in pain, and he didn't think to ask, selfish as ever.

"And you didn't say anything, just kept that locked in." Arthur reprimanded "I knew something was wrong, you were crawling the walls that night." Arthur mentally kicked himself for not pushing harder, thinking it was about him. "I told you it would end up with you doing something stupid."

"This is too much" John cried. "I am not right for this."

"Yes, you are, there is no one better placed than you to love that kid." Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder, the quaking sobs were unbearable. "All parents doubt themselves." Arthur groaned, more experienced than John in these matters he couldn't see any suggestion in Rose's behaviour that implied she wasn't still an innocent kid. The grimace etched on John's face compelled him to sort it. He just wasn't sure what he was sorting, Rose's potential abuse or John's history. What a conversation to have with each other after all these years. Arthur wrapped his knuckles on her door before letting himself in, choosing the more receptive option, John could wait.

"What did I do wrong?" She bawled, her cheeks were rosy and eyes puffy.

"Nothing darling, he is worried for you." He scooped her up with all the natural grace of a father and placed her on his lap. "Sometimes, when adults get scared, they shout when they should listen." He cuddled her, cooing in her ear as she calmed and nestled into his chest. He missed this so much, the warm dependency given by innocence.

"Rose, I need to ask you a few questions; and I need you to answer honestly?" He rocked her gently, taking her broken breath as acknowledgement.

"When I found you with that man, what do you think he wanted to do?" The question was innocuous as possible.

"The other kids said that man would pay me a dollar," She said. He caught her gaze, willing her to continue. "To touch him" She mumbled. "I was hungry." She reasoned, feeling a sense of shame but unsure why.

"Did they tell you where you needed to touch." She nodded. He placed his finger on her lips to stop her from saying further. His expression remaining stoic, he couldn't show her the searing pain aching in his heart. It didn't mean John was right, knowing was one thing didn't mean she experienced anything.

"Were there other men who wanted you to touch them?" Arthur asked, tactfully.

"No, it was my first time doing it" she responded. Arthur studied her expression to check she wasn't lying; he was sure she was telling the truth.

"What about at home, did the man of the house touch you or make you touch him." He thought to ask, still no clearer why she ran away in the first place.

"He smacked my legs a few times when I was naughty." Rose scrunched her nose at the memory.

"Did you deserve it?" Arthur chuckled, was willing to let the act of discipline slide, Rose definitely had a naughty streak in her, why else would she get on with John. She smiled, accepting she deserved most of the punishments. Arthur kissed her on the forehead and pulled her in tight, now the process of sealing the wound, hoping the scar disappeared.

"Grown-ups like to touch each other sometimes because it makes them feel special." He spoke softly. "But they should only do it when they love each other." His metronome tone hypnotic, made this appear as a reasonable conversation to have with a ten-year-old. "Some naughty people, like that man, want to be touched by children which is wrong." He lifted her up, cherishing her in his arms, so they were face to face, nowhere to hide. "It's our job to protect you from those people." He delicately pulled her chin staring into her eyes. "Promise me you will tell us if anyone ever tries to touch you." She nodded compliantly to his words.

"Can I tell you a secret about John?" Her sombre eyes lit up with excitement, a secret just between them about John. "Sometimes he is an idiot, he worries about things" Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, unsure how to word his musings of John, built up over a lifetime of study. "If you look hard enough, you can see the smoke coming out of his ears." She giggled, sure she witnessed that at the breakfast table. "It means he scared, no one likes being scared," She nodded her agreement. "And sometimes he shouts, but he is generally shouting at himself even if it feels like he is shouting at you." He nuzzled her nose.

"He doesn't need to be scared; I'll look after him." She proudly proclaimed.

"Oh, sweet girl, will you do that for me, make sure he's not scared." He fussed. She cooed happily.

"What if I am naughty?" She sought his clarification. Arthur grinned, she was savvy and astute, all the hallmarks of a good outlaw. Her careful questioning displayed self-preservation at her core, concealed behind her radiant butter wouldn't melt features. John was going to have his work cut out trying to tame Rose, wild and headstrong just like John was at that age.

"He will look at you with sad eyes," Arthur said. "He will sulk and not speak to you for a few days." Arthur huffed, remembering. "You will try to say sorry, even if you don't think it's your fault because you can't stand that petulant face and that disappointed look." She laughed at his mutterings, unsure if he was talking to her anymore. He smiled realising he was drifting a little.

"So, it's ok to cuddle because a cuddle is different from touching." He grinned. "Families cuddle, and we are family, you, me and John but only adults touch."

"You and John." She said proudly, thinking she understood but had no idea why any of it was significant.

"Yes, me and John," Arthur confirmed. He held her for a bit longer, enjoying the closeness, offered breakfast which was refused as she had already consumed most of it. He couldn't delay the next talk any longer, feeling the angst permeating through the wall. As he got up to leave, she grabbed his hand

"Arthur, you won't leave us, will you?" She almost pleaded

"That's not my decision to make, its John's home." He responded honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to put a bit of context to this chapter, John is completely new to fatherhood and has yet to master the subtle questioning that is needed to clarify what Rose means. Kids say stupid things sometimes and its a parents job to understand that and coax out of them what they mean and then respond. He obviously doesn't do that which leads to Arthur stepping and attempting to put things right. This chapter is inspired by my own childhood memory, I asked my father if he ever had his testicles out, he responded where do you think testicles are? I pointed at my throat, he said tonsils and then said no. Now I am adult he loves reminding me of that conversation and I am always mortified because I can remember it vividly, as a child I had not idea what I was asking.


	23. Remembering (Part 2)

John hadn't moved from his seat, breakfast untouched, his legs trembled impatiently. "You're mad at me, I can tell." John barked at Arthur. "Just say what you've got to say."

"I am not mad, could have done without the drama." Arthur huffed tucking into his cold breakfast. "This isn't about her." Arthur hesitated; this was a threshold he hoped he would never have to cross. "It is about you, unresolved issues from your past."

John shot him a glance of disgust; they never really spoke openly about his past before the gang. It was there, a never-ending red ribbon wrapping around them but they both chose to ignore it, certainly not discuss it in depth.

"That was a lifetime ago, Arthur," John said, coolly. "I am not harbouring repressed emotions about it; I don't even dream about it no more."

"It's my fault, John." Arthur conceded, pushing the plate away. Cold beans were not his favourite.

"How is it your fault, we didn't even know each other?" John groaned. Arthur always had to blame himself for things out of his control, perhaps if he focussed more on the elements in his power, they wouldn't have been apart for the last four years.

"What do you remember about being 12?" Arthur asked, his tone serious with concern.

"What do you mean?" John questioned, unsure of the relevance.

"Tell me what you remember?" Arthur pleaded.

"I joined the gang, I hated baths and chores, liked playing, liked playing with you and reading and hunting," John responded. "What do you want me to remember?"

"Were you happy?" He asked, it was irrelevant, but he needed to know.

"Yeah, I suppose so, it was good to feel safe," John confirmed. Arthur frowned at the sentiment, _felt good to feel safe _that view wouldn't last.

"I helped you to forget. I did such a good job that sometimes I am amazed by how little you remember" Arthur's legs began to shake, what a mess. "I don't know if that was the right thing to do anymore?" 

"I didn't forget," John squalled. "I still had nightmares."

"Yes, well, I am not claiming to be God!" Arthur stood, hoping it would stop the shaking, but it migrated up to his hands. "I couldn't control your subconscious, but I was always there to hold you afterwards." He needed to state that, for John to remember the genuine moments, he was always there to hold him through the fear. 

"But you forgot, and you grew up not remembering." He sat up straight, determined, this conversation had to happen even if it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. "Kids like you and Rose, it's like someone turned the tap on early and it needs to be turned off again until it starts flowing naturally." He tried to justify himself, provide a reason in advance. John was never subtle or rational, he always reacted, like gun powder leaking out of a keg, it only took one spark.

"You're an adult now, and you need to help Rose, I thought helping you to forget those things would make them go away." He took a deep breath. "I was wrong, it just delays them or gets them twisted up with other things." Arthur's throat bobbed, it was painful, how John used to twist his expressions of love into something else. Sometime torrid and confused, most of the time not even realising he was doing it.

"I don't know what you mean?" John's wolfish glare raked over him, he was already losing, and he hadn't even started yet, not properly.

"I taught you to forget" Arthur repeated, he needed to maintain composure, getting angry wasn't going to help. "I am here to help you remember, for Rose's sake." His eyes rolled grey with focus, removing himself from sentimentality and love, engaging his cold temperament to speak the truth.

Arthur spoke with a dry, emotionless tone like he was reading a pamphlet or some uninspiring literature, anything to remove the emotion, John would supply that by the bucket load. Carefully, he began removing the soft, warm memories that he helped to build, started to colour the reality. Like most lies, they were not made on complete mistruths, they were woven into actual events. Arthur was a master in omitting key moments, that would allow those memories to pivot into something else. He started at the beginning, the first time they cuddled after a nightmare, the promise to protect him. That promise permeated every moment was not made from the dreams alone. Arthur holding John, fell asleep quickly, a definite habit forming. He was awoken by a small hand, resting where it should not be, moving in a knowledgeable and disturbing manner. Arthur quick and cautious, without hesitation or doubt, grabbed John's wrist, not in anger or out of disgust, grabbed it and kissed it. He spoke what was in his heart "You don't have to do that no more, no one here will want that for you, you deserve much better." Not wrong, not no, nothing to suggest it was a failure on John's part, just unnecessary.

"I want to show my gratitude." He whined.

"In this gang, we do chores to show our gratitude" Arthur responded. "Miss Grimshaw will be grateful for the help." Mimicking the words John used, gratitude, what a concept.

"Wait, wait" John shuffled uneasily in his chair. "Before you unravel more of the lies of my childhood" His leg still shaking uncontrollably. "I need to clarify something." He chewed his lip, Arthur waited patiently, this was going to be a slow process.

"I tried to touch you to show my gratitude." His glare fixed on Arthur; he would know if he was lying. "Was it just once?"

"You could be a bit _tactile_ when we bathed, but I just threatened to drown you if you didn't wash." Arthur chuckled; it wasn't a laughing matter, but his humour was all he had to hold on to. John knew instantly he wasn't lying if Arthur joked then he was telling the truth.

"I didn't try it with anyone else?" He regretted asking.

"Hosea, once" Arthur was honest.

John was mortified, "I think I am going to be sick." He got up from his chair, started to pace the room, unable to settle his nerves. Arthur shuddered; he'd hoped the restlessness would have abated for a while longer.

"Can I get on with this?" Arthur shifted in his chair, trying to regain his poise and control, he couldn't renege, John needed to know.

"There's more?" John whined.

"It's you, there is always more," Arthur said sullenly.

Arthur was not so naive to believe that was the last of it. That John would wake the next morning absolved of his knowledge and memory. He spoke to his father, Hosea, who admitted a similar experience. Together they planned what to do about it, Arthur embraced Hosea's advice and eventual thanks for his candour and care towards the boy. _You will make a fine father one day, Arthur_, how wrong he was.

The next event or events were harder to manage. John finding Arthur not willing to accept his gratitude in the only way he knew how to show, came up with an idea. Witnessing the praise Dutch bestowed on Arthur when he put notes in the fund box. John would show his gratitude by adding to the ledger. After several months of chores and camp living, he pleaded to be allowed more freedom. Dutch, lacking any parental care or responsibility towards the boy, let him go to town. Arthur only realised when completing the ledger himself that he found John's name next to $10. Subtly he began to question, probing how the money was obtained. John laughed it off at first, joked about this and that, made some story up about finding it. John was never good at lying, he had a noticeable twitch when he lied. Possibly why when asked outright, he will always tell the truth, can't be bothered with the pretence. Unquestionably, why Arthur hadn't challenged him about Giorgio. He couldn't bear hearing the truth, he wanted him to lie or tell him in his own time when it was right for him.

John would not admit the truth about the $10, no matter how subtle Arthur was. It became unbearable, John started running off every time he could feel the confession bubbling. It was too risky, what if John ran away for good? Arthur changed tactics, appealing to John's need to prove himself.

"Next time we are in town, can you show me how you made the $10, might want to try it myself." Arthur offered.

"No, you don't need to learn from me," John said bashfully. Arthur earned the gang more than John could ever believe was possible.

"We can always learn from each other" Arthur pressed.

"No!" John shouted. "It's the only thing I can do."

Arthur finally relented; John wasn't going to tell him. He was concerned about shaming the boy, making him feel what he did was wrong or dirty, he couldn't risk it becoming more mental scars. John wasn't wrong, the men he acquired as customers they were sick, John just needed protecting. Arthur would have to find out for himself, although it revolted him, the secrecy around the $10 confirmed to him that John was still selling himself. This was worse, he wasn't doing it for survival, he was doing it to prove himself to the gang.

The town was a shithole trading post, sailors on shore leave its primary source of business. Arthur explained his plan to Hosea, seeking his counsel on whether it was the right thing to do. They both agreed, Dutch should be kept in the dark, while he claimed not to judge, having a twelve-year-old boy prostituting himself for the gang was not the best image. Arthur went to town, finding a good vantage point to wait and watch. Hosea played his part, sending John to fetch the post. His scraggly wild hair covered most of his face, he walked with purpose and angst, his skittish nerves visible from so far away.

John hung around for a few hours, just dawdling about, mainly outside the tavern. _The kid had some staying power_; Arthur noted, it was dusk when he thought on giving up. Nonchalantly walking by, picking the kid up as a happy coincidence and taking him home. Then it happened, a man was talking to John, his scowl turned to a smile as payment was exchanged. It made Arthur tremble with fear and disgust and anger. He left his watching post and followed, hiding behind corners as the pair roamed towards the concealed courtyard at the back of the tavern.

Arthur was torn, if he went too early John would lie about what he was doing, too late and the image would be horrific, he wasn't sure either could erase from their minds. He observed as John fell to his knees and the man fumbled to unbuckle his pants. Arthur wrenched, the burning in his throat dissolving his composure. He drew his revolver:

"Get the hell away from him!" He shouted as he put space between John and the man. His finger twitching on the trigger, begging for release. Arthur pulled John up by the scruff, he was greeted with kicks and punches, frustrated growls of angst and shame.

"Arthur, don't shoot him." Screamed John, Arthur's grey focus turned to distress as he tried to fathom his words.

"Why are you protecting him?" Arthur scowled, "After what he was going to do!" The turmoil was suffocating, he almost crumbled, fighting the relentless John for dominance while keeping an eye firmly planted on the man who hadn't moved. Not an ounce of humiliation or disgrace was written in his expression. No pleas for clemency left the man's lips, he was studying Arthur waiting for his opportunity.

"You, get on your knees!" Arthur screamed at the man; aware he was losing control of the situation.

"What's your name?" Arthur roared. The man was silent, his eyes fixed on Arthur, his control impeccable. There were very few men in the world that made Arthur Morgan shudder, but he was definitely one of them.

"Your Name! or I swear to god I will shoot you." Arthur grabbed John around the waist, holding him tight to his hip. He was still struggling but was too wispy and thin to unclench the grip that now constricted around him.

"Sylas Jones." The man offered coolly.

"Well Sylas Jones, this is your lucky day." Arthur snarled. "If I ever see you again, you won't be so lucky." Arthur shot his blue lightning glare at the man once more for good measure. He carried John's plank body, limp with defeat to Samsun who was dutifully waiting. He caught an unintended glimpse of his face, it was pale and twitching, terrified. Scared of Arthur, the inner turmoil returned. They rode quickly, Arthur pumping his fury into poor Samsun who responded by setting an alarming pace.

"I know you are angry with me!" John screamed, "Please don't make me leave the gang." Arthur pulled up short, Samsun screamed with rage. Arthur grabbed the boy from Samsun and pushed him into the dirt. He couldn't be soft and caring, that hadn't worked, he wanted to hit him, beat it out of him, but the terror in his doe eyes was too much:

"Why am I angry at you?" Arthur paced restlessly determined not to unleash his pent-up aggression on the boy.

"I don't know?" John quaked

"Come on, John, don't act the fool." Arthur slurred with his southern drawl.

"Because you don't like it when I do that, but it makes money, look I got $10." John eagerly pulled out the note that Sylas Jones had given him, now he had $10, and he didn't have to do anything to get it.

"I don't want $10" Arthur ripped the note from his hand, scrunched into a ball and kicked away from them. "I want you to not do it." John watched as the bill disappeared into the grass, he could find it, he rolled onto his stomach, scurrying over to where it landed. 

"No, John!" Arthur pulled at his leg, receiving a kick for his troubles. He pounced, flipping him over, tripping and landing over the boy's legs. "I…. don't… want… $10." He started climbing up his weedy body until he was able to clasp his arms and pin them over his head.

"Why, Arthur..." John began to sob "You don't want it…." The words crushed Arthur's heart, it wasn't a case of want, it was wrong, it was evil. "I need to prove myself, pay my way." John cried a mop of greasy black tangled hair and big brown eyes. Arthur pressed his head against John's, crying.

"Not like that, please, John." He brushed the hair from his face, held his gaze. "I love you; I love you too much to risk losing you, not like that. What if he hurt you?" The thought made him tremble; Sylas Jones was not the type of man that would think twice about hurting a boy. His stare possessed an evil, even Arthur was scared.

"I can defend myself." He blubbered, still trying to prove himself.

"I don't want you to defend yourself, that is my job, to protect you." Arthur huffed, exasperated, tears gently descending down his cheeks. "We are family now, and families don't lie to each other, and they don't hurt each other."

"I didn't hurt you, Arthur." He pleaded, shamed to think he had caused him pain.

"When I saw you on your knees for that man, it hurt me, John." Arthur lifted him up, wrapping his strong arms around him. They cried together, whispering apologies, unsure who was receiving the most comfort from the embrace.

"No," John said, tapping his fingers indignantly of the breakfast table. Having placed himself back on the chair for a moments rest bite.

"No, what?" Arthur mused perplexed by his bemused expression.

"I don't believe you;" John shook his head. "I would remember," 

Arthur half expected him to point out inaccuracies, maybe the town was a different name, or it wasn't behind the tavern it was the post office. It was so long ago, his account could be lacking in the finer details to make it believable, but no this was John _bloody_ Marston.

"If you told me you loved me" John proclaimed. "That would have stuck."

"You were twelve!" Arthur reminded him, "Your concept of love would have been completely different."

"No, if you told me you loved me, I would have been walking on air" John pushed "I wouldn't have been so nervous about telling you how I felt when I was sixteen."

_Fifteen, _Arthur shook the thought.

"John, stop conflating the two please." Arthur felt like wrenching, for John life wasn't linear, events didn't happen in order, it was a tangled mess of emotion. Twelve, fifteen, Nineteen, it didn't matter to him, if he loved then he loved at all ages. To Arthur, it was monstrous thought, he would happily tie the noose himself if he wasn't sure that nothing inappropriate was ever on his mind, not when John was still a kid. "I give myself a hard-enough time about the transition without you making it worse."

Returning back to camp, Arthur disclosed what happened. Dutch was a putrid purple, he had a scam in the town, and John's actions risked it, John had to go. Arthur knew then that it was his fault, John wasn't being sent away because he recklessly endangered his own life, what was one more dead kid in the grand scheme of things. John was being sent away because Arthur carelessly risked his life protecting John and Dutch would not abide that. The cruel grip of jealousy burnt deep in his coal eyes.

Arthur pleaded with him, begged for John to stay, Dutch was deaf to his pleas. The others, even the women, remained silent, this was their argument. The bond between them so strong no one felt safe intervening, even with John's life hanging in the balance. It was agreed, In the morning Hosea would take him into town, put him on a train and send him away. It tore Arthur in two, John wouldn't survive on his own he needed protecting. He waited for everyone to sleep.

"We ran away, spent three months living in the mountains above O'Creagh's run," Arthur stated the facts. 

"Pause weren't you worried I was going to molest you once we were on our own," John said sarcastically.

"I am glad you have a sense of humour about this." He grumbled.

"Ah, sense of humour or just don't believe it," John said slyly. "Three months living away from the gang, alone with you, I would have remembered."

"Routine and survival, I took you hunting for the first time, we went fishing a lot, it helped you change, over time you changed, and when it was safe to do so, we returned to camp," Arthur said. "Welcomed back into the loving arms of our family where we belonged."

"I know you are lying," John smirked, he got him now. "Our first hunting trip, Hosea was there, he always tells the story," John said with glee, trapping the liar in his own lie. "I attracted the wolves we jumped into the river to get away."

"It is one thing to change you," Arthur clasped his hands together. "but to truly make you forget is for everyone to be in on it." He stood up and placed his large calloused hands on John's shoulders.

"Hosea tells that story as if he was there so you can't remember you and me being alone." He felt a jolt course through him. "It changes the memory." He gripped tighter, ready for the implosion." Think about it, John, if wolves made us jump in the river why wasn't Hosea in the river with us. He would have been eaten by a pack of wolves if he stayed on land."

There was a deathly quiet silence, even the dead would hear it. The cogs of John brain whirring, trying to remember. He couldn't have suppressed it, not all of it, like huge black holes in his memory. But then how much do people honestly remember, most is what is told to them, spikes some recollection of events. John could remember the wolves, the river, Arthur commanding him, so he stayed afloat until he was able to get to him. That terror was for real he could remember but Hosea, there was nothing.

"I can't remember any of it." John shook with realisation, his gravel voice quaking with uncertainty. Arthur held on to his shoulders, using his force to temper the angst, he couldn't break with Rose so vulnerable.

"Sometimes, I can't believe how good a job we did." Arthur relented, it was a moment of pride that he helped John to forget, pride was a fool's game, he could see that now.

"I need you to try and remember, for Rose." He begged, there was no pamphlet for this, no words that could navigate the mind of a traumatised child. It was trial and error, with the highest stakes possible if he failed. Trying to be open and honest while walking on eggshells, it had been Arthur's life for so long. When John finally grew into a man, he had to train himself to stop doing it, let him be his own person. Relinquish control, only to find the person he protected for so long loved him, it was too much, too surreal, like everything in his life doomed to fail.

"If this is true then you didn't know, you didn't know when we first kissed." John rocked, "That I wasn't …that I wasn't trying to show you I was grateful. That I genuinely had feelings for you!" The thought was too unbearable, how to face that, Arthur must have been ragged with mental turmoil.

"No, I suspected but could never know." Arthur released a pained breath. "The kiss was meant to be a controlled experiment."

"How did that work out for you?" John said, unlike Arthur, his wit could be unintentionally cruel. Arthur bore it, he was exhausted, too exhausted to be anything but honest.

"The way you reacted proved you weren't ready." He released his shoulders, his spasming muscles had subsided into trembling, now Arthur needed protecting. "I swore that night I would never touch you again."

"That's why I can forgive you for lying" John rose, feeling the distance between them. "because the person you lie most to is yourself." He followed his outlaw as he took a step away, John closed the gap, Arthur wasn't hiding from him. "Anyway, I didn't react that way because I was abused." He said softly. "I had a dream about you, you were so different, cruel, it scared me.

"Your unconscious brain, still remembered," Arthur huffed, "Told you not to trust me."

"But I did trust you" John could feel himself welling up, his eyes stinging, his life as he saw it was not his own. He got to live in relative calm compared to the tumultuous havoc he bestowed on Arthur. Arthur could easily have denied him any sort of love, pushed him away, but he didn't, he fought for him, tooth and nail to protect him.

"It just meant you weren't ready." Arthur reasoned. "You weren't sure yourself so couldn't be sure of me." Arthur felt his sorrow illuminated by his bravery. He wasn't a powder keg waiting to explode, he was a soft, loving, caring boy again, who needed his reassurance.

"Come on" Arthur embraced him, rubbing his back as he did for Rose. "Don't cry, please." He could hear the stifled sobs, the wet patch forming on his shirt. He couldn't ignore the fusion between them, they conquered the physical several times, now the mental bonds were tightening, they were in love, still, after all this time. Hopelessly devoted to one another. Arthur pinched John's chin, lifting it to reveal the sodden mess of greasy black hair and big round eyes, the slightest frown, how he should be. He edged forward until their lips brushed, slightly, then pushed deeper until their mouths were joined in union, no tongues or teeth, just an honest, thoughtful kiss.

"What was that for?" John mumbled as Arthur pulled away.

"The first kiss we should have had." He moaned in bliss.


	24. Space

Arthur left him to it, sensual kisses aside, they emotionally ravaged each other. It hurt, it hurt too much to be in the same space. Arthur ran when he thought he did wrong, especially to John, he couldn't bear to witness his perceived crimes written across that sullen face. Studied in the art of subtlety, no glance of defeat or twitch of sorrow ever went unrecorded with Arthur around. Unfortunately for the outlaw, he fell in love with the one man who subtle wasn't an attribute in his possession. John was unravelling, wracking his brains trying to remember, just one memory that solidified all he was told. Arthur knew with one would come many. The first trickle of spring snowmelt would soon be a raging torrent. Arthur would be condemned, duty-bound to answer the deluge of questions, everything laid out in one go, forensically. Arthur in the docks, John, his judge, jury and executioner seeking justification for every crime and sin he held against Arthur's name. Space was what they needed; he was yet to determine how much space was required.

"Are you crying?" Rose stepped forward cautiously, still upset from their last interaction. John held out his arms to her, and without hesitation, she ran towards them, finding herself squeezed and kissed to within an inch of her life.

"I am sorry I shouted at you." He quivered. "I shouldn't have lost my temper." Her pooling blue eyes looked up to find him, snotty, red and embarrassed. The child he was meant to comfort was now comforting him. He pulled away, wiping his face with his hands in a weak attempt to regain his composure.

"Where's Arthur?" She asked, craving his presence. John could relate, always wanting him close, like a protective blanket.

"He's gone out, he needs time alone." John rasped. "Being the grown-up all the time can be exhausting," John said unconvincingly. Arthur ran like always, scared of John's reaction. He didn't need to be worried; John wasn't a kid anymore. In the week since assuming the role of Rose's father, John felt completely incompetent in comparison to Arthur. He compared himself to the outlaw and found himself desperately lacking in the necessary skills. 

John spent his life either mimicking the man, worshipping him, now he just felt intense admiration. His kindness was insurmountable, his consideration monumental. He possessed an awareness of the needs of others to the extent he would provide comfort they didn't know they wanted. Arthur was a giant amongst men John had the privilege of standing on his shoulders. Yet the man himself portrayed an aura of undeserving, denying himself the same kindness and comfort that he gave in an abundance. How could someone who personified every inch who John wanted to be, deny themselves help, touch, love or a home? Arthur didn't feel like he deserved a place in this family, even if John begged and pleaded and thrashed around like a child, he would not stay.

Rose and John spent the day quietly pottering around each other. John didn't force interaction, he waited for Rose to initiate, he had to regain her confidence, and that would be a slow process. When she found her own comfort reading her books, a sense of foreboding washed over him, unsettled by his own presence, his loneliness. Without Rose or Arthur's distraction, he was left with his own thoughts which he couldn't trust as real anymore.

How could he know? How could he identify what was real and what was a fabrication? There were points he grasped on to, tangible memories, only to doubt himself and them. Without Arthur to fill in the gaps, he was drowning in the murky depths of it all. John thought about seeking him out, he couldn't have gone far, but Arthur needed his own space. They had only ever argued when John intruded, never his intention. When in pain, Arthur preferred his own company, when all John wanted was Arthur. John was convinced if he was going to win Arthur back, he would have to respect his need for space, no matter how terrifying, like Rose, he would have to wait until Arthur was ready.

*****

The truth revealed again, not tenderly or with any shrewd planning to how it should be presented. No, necessity was always their undoing. The necessity of having to heal the wounds of others, always adding to their collection of scars. His muted screams were almost his undoing, speaking platitudes, void and empty. _When have I ever lied?_ Sat on his tongue throughout as John challenged his revelations, but the answer he dreaded _All the time_. A lie told to protect is not a lie, it is the manufacture of a much preferable truth. Arthur justified to himself only to find he didn't believe it anymore. Lying was not his compulsion, the wretchedness of his sins now sat firmly in every fibre, whether he chose to lie or tell the truth, was insignificant. No, to trust and be trusted, the unanswered question, _do you still trust me?_ His ultimate fear, the answer would be no.

Arthur's selflessness was in itself selfish, there was only so much of him to share. A delicate balancing act, the scales always tipped and returned a little lighter. Did Eliza and Isaac notice their share diminishing? Having shown acceptance to only have a part of him in the first place, over time, it thinned, until that time they needed him the most they found their stake dissolved completely. Was Dutch sour towards him because he gained, gained so much he came close to the whole and then lost it? John didn't even recognise that he was in receipt of any of it_. I never came first_, echoed in his mind, _you were always first_.

He snared some turkeys with ease, grumbling at his own skill, he needed longer, a day maybe two before he could face that wolfish glare, those doe eyes full of sorrow. He pretended he left for them, to give them space to repair, but space was needed on both sides. John losing sight of the necessary, getting lost in the meaning. He couldn't fill all the gaps, aware his insecurities had changed, years of reasoning himself to why? Why was he different? Arthur could have provided clarity, given him the reasons but to what end. To take his sparkle, his light and pour darkness over it felt wrong. John's love was so pure, innocent, if he told him back then what was real, it could have twisted him into something he could not bear. John putting those early years in the context of his own making, Arthur took his meaning and rolled a steam engine through it. The worst and most unspeakable yet to be asked. Arthur could convince himself that he didn't touch John until nineteen out of honour, valour, the vulnerable child in John still too broken to embark on a relationship. Arthur knew he was lying, even to himself, if John hadn't run from their first kiss, he was not convinced he wouldn't have taken it further, his body wanted to, even if his mind said it was wrong. He was a bad man lusting over a broken boy who was in his care.

Arthur hung the turkeys at the back of the house, not wishing Rose to see the bloody mess as their bodies exsanguinated. His eyes narrowed focusing on the slow drip of the fluid as it pooled in the dirt below, his mind was far away, thinking how to tell John that he was leaving, compelled to return to the gang. Arthur would promise to come back, then life would pivot, and the promise would be broken; they always were. What was he coming back to, did John live alone? Where was Giorgio? What a predicament, they shouldn't have fallen again, but they didn't, it was just a resuming. He felt John's arms wrap around his torso; he was becoming too good at sneaking up on him.

"Thought we wouldn't see you for a couple of days? He said solemnly, acknowledging his outlaw’s temperament, showing acceptance of it. Arthur murmured in agreement, no point in hiding from John. He thought about camping out, under the stars, seek the counsel of his family. To leave John locked in his own mind was too punishing, or worse, have John think he left without saying goodbye, he couldn’t be that cruel.

"Arthur." John released him and turned to face him. "I don't want you to blame yourself anymore."

"You're not angry?" Arthur whispered.

"Where would that get us?" John rubbed the scar on Arthur's chin, his scar, that no other could claim. "How many times could I have died if you weren't there to save me?" It was thoughtful and considered, everything Arthur suspected John would become without his influence in his life.

"You may not have risked your life in the first place if I wasn't there?" He reasoned.

"I can't do this," John said exacerbated, pulling away. "We can't lay the past out and attribute blame for everything, count it up at the end and see who wronged who the most."

"I would win," Arthur said bluntly, his stature seemed to shrink. His vulnerability was palpable, it confused John how he could shift from alluring to pained. His physical vulnerability was erotic, exciting, something to conquer, John desired it more than he could express. But his mental weakness made his nerves shake, he wasn't used to it. Arthur was always reliable and robust, his protector. John rescinded his early sentiment, not portioning blame, he blamed himself. Arthur was broken more than he realised, and it was his fault.

"I don't blame you for any of it." John was forthright in his conviction, what went wrong, how it went wrong was an accident, twists of chance and unlucky circumstances. He could see it now he was mature, older and wiser. The thought of life without Arthur was unbearable. He vowed he would carry the weight until Arthur was back to himself, and then they would share it equally as couples in love do. That started with forgiveness.

"I don't blame you, Dutch, I get it, you thought I was dead, and you needed comfort." John's stance was aloof, he needed his body to match his mind. He forgave Arthur so long ago, even the lying he could understand.

"It wasn't comfort, John." Arthur snapped, taking a few steps back. He couldn't be this close to him not while he displayed all the mannerisms and meanings of forgiveness, Arthur didn't want his mercy. He was a vile man, bad, he didn't deserve his compassion or his worship.

"Well love then" John countered. "You can admit it, I ain't going to explode with jealousy." John was trying so hard to accommodate Dutch, whatever form he came in they could work it out. Equal share, the odd visit planned or secret whatever Arthur wanted or needed. Was Dutch even an entity to be considered, Arthur said they hadn't been intimate for years, but Arthur still stayed by his side, a love that would never die. John wanted him to understand he would accept whatever share Arthur was willing to give, he just couldn't face nothing, not again.

"John." Arthur couldn't bear it any longer. "I wasn't in my right mind" he shuffled kicking the dirt, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, trying to hide the tears forming in his ducts. John wasn't the only one who had unresolved darkness. It was only right, he exposed John's history, carelessly, all things being fair John should know the truth about him

"I wanted to die, wanted to be with you." Arthur faltered a gasp, to speak openly of his pain, to the one person he concealed it from the most.

"It's ok, Arthur, I get it." John was trying to be sensitive to the words. Loss of a loved one was always delivered a strange melancholy, days, weeks spent thinking of joining them in the next life. How easy it would be to not to wake up, pass on, to be with them. It was not unusual to have these thoughts, but like most feelings, it diminished over time. John would feel that way if Arthur were dead, he would be paralysed with waves of morose sorrow, despondent to the world, wishing for death. Praying that every breath was his last until it became a reality. Arthur didn't have to explain that feeling, he considered it too many times. Arthur wasn't John; he would not allow the harrowing sense of loss to carry him to such a desperate place, that is why he sought comfort in Dutch.

"No, you don't get it" Arthur pivoted on his heel, hiding, tears falling "I was determined, I wanted to die, but I was a coward."

"How can you say that?" John protested. It was not a word he would ever attribute to his brave warrior. "You are not a coward; I am glad you didn't do it." John's gravel voice strained. "The thought of coming back and finding you dead." He gulped, this was serious, not a vague feeling felt and suppressed. Arthur was speaking of real events, in his mind, he wasn't considering dying. The outlaw was actively, physically, putting in place what he needed to allow it to happen. One last time with an old lover because his actual lover was dead and once completed, he would submit to death. John reached out to touch him, to comfort him, but Arthur kept edging away each time he took a step

"That's the problem, you did come back, but I was already dead, inside." Arthur took a deep breath. He could sense John shifting nervously, wanting to embrace him, it was too soon, he needed to brave and tell John the truth.

"I went to Dutch that night because...." he paused, there were something's he could never tell John, it would destroy them both. "I needed to feel disgusted with myself, ashamed and worthless. Dutch provided that and only that."

"What are you saying?" John was gobsmacked.

"The feeling of that man inside me was the catalyst I needed to kill myself," Arthur confessed, what he should have said on the night in question. Revealed his vulnerability, if he were honest John might have stayed, they could have been happy. He shook the thought; if life hadn't gone down this track, then they wouldn't have Rose, that was unthinkable.

"But..." John gasped, trembling. It wasn't Arthur, he was too robust to give up. He suffered so much and always recovered, that was the essence of him. A locomotive trundling along the tracks without deviation. "Why didn't you say, why did you let me leave thinking...I would have understood."

"I didn't want you to understand." Arthur gasped. He turned to face him. John could now witness his tears, his puffy eyes, the snot hanging from his nose. "I didn't want you to know how weak I am."

"You are not weak!" John seized his face. "You are the strongest man I know." Pressing their foreheads together, he hummed, running his fingers through Arthur's hair. Glad Arthur finally let him in, allowing him to carry some of the strain. Then without thinking, he placed his hand on the back of Arthur's neck and began to massage. The act that was always theirs had been reversed, and it felt right.

"I want you to stay," John whispered. Arthur went to protest, but he caught it pushing their lips together in a sultry kiss, winning his silence.

"Don't respond, I already know what you will say. But I won't have you using the fact that I never asked to justify you leaving or to prevent you from coming back." He kissed him again.

"This is our home Arthur; you will always have a place here." John wrapped his arm around him, holding him tight as they rocked through their mutual misery.

"Promise me you will stop hurting yourself," John whispered into his ear. Those words felt peculiar, familiar, something from the past called to him. Still, no sooner he seized the significance it melted away.


	25. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, think I have finally lost it, comparing John's lovers to sitting on a chair, which will he chose the comfortable old one or the well built new one? There is a lot of furniture based imagery in this, just started writing and couldn't appear to stop myself. I suppose the durability of furniture is a very important consideration in these matters.

John stirred restlessly in his sleep, his limbs flailing, preventing Arthur from sleep. He considered waking him but stopped himself as he was at a loss to say. John declared he doesn't have nightmares anymore, yet here he was thrashing and displaying all the tell-tale signs of one. His fault again, too much, too soon. Arthur's own muscles found themselves restless and aching, brutalised in the most beautiful ways imaginable. Yet a familiar twitch of doubt spasmed through the tenderness and left him uncomfortable and unable to rest. His mind spun around the options as he saw them, it was necessary to tell John about the past. Still, without the protection of that warm glow, he left himself exposed. Removing his image of Arthur as a mighty, stoic protector and leaving him with a weak, feeble version of himself, his real self. John might say considerate and kind words now, hold him in warm and loving embraces, he actually asked him to stay. Yet, eventually, over time, he would begin to regret loving someone so useless, so fragmented, so utterly and intolerably debased of all virtue and goodness. The mask that covered his deceptions, protected him from proper scrutiny was now removed, his essence revealed, he would be found deficient and lacking. At his core, he was rotten, and it wouldn't be long until John realised. His John, the brave and stupid boy who always connected the hidden links, chaining them together until he reached the whole. John accepted willingly, his lifelong study of Arthur like he was a puzzle to be solved. There were not many pieces left to fit. Once complete, how could John love the grotesque picture staring back at him.

_"Arthur,"_ John mumbled in his sleep.

"It's ok, I am here." He responded, weaving his fingers into John's.

_"Arthur's bleeding_." John's face creased with concern. His head snapping restlessly from left to right. Arthur hushed him, trying to relax him without stirring him.

_"Arthur, why are you bleeding?". _A cold shiver descended his spine, John was remembering, in the subconscious he was pulling at events long forgotten, probing at the unknown. Arthur couldn't remain to see the pieces click into place, to have the questions asked that he would never answer. Arthur unclasped their hands, quietly extracted himself from the bed. Fumbling in the darkness for his clothes, leaving the bedroom to dress in the kitchen. With his gambler poised on his head, he watched as John continued to thrash, repeating his name over and over. It was poison seeping into every concealed crack of their broken lives. He once thought they could overcome anything, if they were together, this was too great an obstacle. It was one thing to believe the lies to protect his innocence, quite another to realise the lies concealed their own deviancy. If there was one thing John didn't need in his life, it was Arthur.

John woke, feeling more tired than when he went to sleep, he must have been restless. Finding himself horizontal in the bed he was meant to be sharing. It had been a while since he awoke so disoriented like he spent the evening wandering the plains alone and found rest in someone else's bed, someone else's home. Those few seconds to re-adjust and accept he was in his house were some of the loneliest he could recall. John bit his lip, trying not to get carried away, a gnawing of acceptance that Arthur was gone. He tried to convince himself he was wrong to think such things, Arthur was always up with the lark, except lately that wasn't the case, each day John was up before him, the roles reversed. His body groaned under the weight of everything, muscles aching and bones crying, forcing himself into movement when more rest was needed. The kitchen was empty, he checked on Rose, still asleep, but no sign of Arthur. Trying to control the wretched ache that made his jaw stiff and his eye water, he took a deep breath, this was coming, he prepared himself for it. Arthur would leave, go back to the gang, but it was still a fresh wound opening.

"Morning" Arthur grumbled as he entered the homestead.

"Morning" John responded coldly, trying to dampen the explosions of emotion in his mind. He set about preparing breakfast, occupying his hands, giving his brain space to calm itself. Pouring a cup of coffee, passing it to Arthur, their fingers brushing slightly, the outlaw flinched. John's stomach rolled, sickness and bile sat in his throat, he needed to save them, assume the role that was never his. It was Arthur who did the saving, his was to accept it.

"I was thinking, maybe you and Rose could go to Strawberry today, she is going to need more clothes." Arthur unrolled a pile of notes and placed them on the table. John thought to refuse the gesture, he was more than capable of paying for Rose's clothes. Is this how to save them by accepting without question? He couldn't, Arthur was buying him off, guilt money, Judas, betrayal.

"Do you want to come with us?" He asked, hoping the answer would be yes, that the scene playing out was not what he suspected. All experience telling him that Arthur was withdrawing, shifting his focus. If he believed hard enough that it wasn't the case, those tell-tale signs weren't there, then maybe it wouldn't happen.

"No, thought I might catch up on some sleep," Arthur said despondently. John thought to ask why he hadn't slept, but what would that gain, an argument, a mind your own business. He was aware of his nightmare, tossing and turning, lucid one moment and immersed the next. But they were hazed and confused, visions of events that didn't make any sense. Arthur must have known what they were about, why he was so stiff and unresponsive.

They ate breakfast in a mute fashion, the scrapes of cutlery a crescendo against the stony silence. Even Rose was reserved, sensing the tension that sat between them. She carefully tried to catch their gaze, to asses and read but was greeted with desolate glances of desperation as they both hid from her in the act of eating.

"Do you know what we should do?" John croaked, relenting to the reality, his attempt at excitement was forced as his gravel voice strained with hurt. She shook her head with trepidation, hoping it was something fun but was still uneasy.

"We should take Jezebel and go to Strawberry." He calmed, acting more natural. "See if we can find so more pretty dresses for you." She smiled excitedly, glad he noticed that one yellow dress, no matter how beautiful wasn't enough. John forced a grin, relenting, most of his life turning out to be a fabrication, built by those who supposedly loved him enough to lie. Arthur was set on extracting himself for their family in the most painful and illusive way possible. Perhaps he should have fought, screamed and shouted, begged and pleaded but what would that achieve. Arthur's focus was shifting away from them, to argue would only confirm how irrelevant they now were to him.

Dress shopping seemed quite a simple endeavour to embark upon, bury his wounded heart in the practical requirements of clothes shopping. He was a father now; he couldn't abandon Rose to become self-sufficient while he descended into madness. Undone on the kitchen floor, knees pulled to his chest rocking with insecurity, tears burning his eyes. That part of him was there, had been there for most of breakfast but no one else could see it. To them, he was sat on a chair eating his breakfast, talking about the day ahead like any healthy, sensible individual. So what if inside he was imploding, breaking, slightly dying, _A wounded heart doesn't cause death, _sister had once told him.

*****

He placed Rose in front of him, her legs dangled side on, still too short to sit cowboy style. His breath was shaky with apprehension as she leaned back into his chest. He pondered, when he and Arthur cuddled after a nightmare, how selfish he felt taking all the comfort that was given, Arthur sacrificing his own happiness for John. With Rose against his chest, her warmth tingling, soothing, healing. He realised how special those moments were for both of them, cradled and entwined, innocence trusting implicitly. He held on tight, Rose will keep his heart beating.

They gently set off across the meadows a painting of green punctuated with reds and yellows, the perfumed scent of wildflower, sweet, attracting bees buzzing for nectar and birds swooping for prey. The big blue sky full of wisps of white fluffy clouds, this was a beautiful part of the country, perfect for raising a child. A deer, a doe, whipped its head up from the brook, John stopped a moment and pointed it out to Rose. She was enthralled, nature, the outdoors was not something she was accustomed too, she squealed with excitement, then pouted when the deer bolted.

"You have to be quiet around animals, they scare easily," John whispered. Remembering Arthur barking the same sentence when he was a boy, in fairness to his temperament, wolves did arrive not soon after. John clicked Jezebel on as they sauntered towards Strawberry. He could do this, be a father, if he just kept his mind focussed on the present, leave the past behind him, don't think too far ahead, just live each step.

"Why isn't Arthur with us?" She said, noticing his absence.

"He needed some time alone" John responded. "You will learn this about your Uncle Arthur, he likes his own company, he will be back when he is ready."

"He won't leave us?" She whimpered.

"No, he won't leave us, he always comes back, eventually." John pushed the thought; he wouldn't leave, not without saying goodbye. He glanced back at the cabin, the two stocky shires were specks but still there, grazing.

*****

Arthur sat alone, contemplating what to do, he thought about leaving in the night, at one point he was on the horse. It didn't feel right, Arthur felt hope, neither John or Rose had given him the sense that he wasn't part of this, that he wouldn't be welcomed as an equal partner. Just the simple act of overcoming a lifetime of insecurities and a crippling lack of faith in his own worth, then they could be happy. He could sense John accepting the inevitable, what had he done to that boy to make him so compliant? Failed him time and time again, he now just waited expectantly, the familiar disappointment. No anger, no crossed words just a recognition of Arthur's transient existence, who appeared water to his fire, the latest deluge extinguishing the last spark. How to love someone when the act of loving them takes away their nature, who they are, leaving them a pathetic puddle on the floor.

_Dear John,_

_There are several torn out pages sitting in your bin, after a lifetime of writing I have found myself lost for words. So, I will just come clean. I have been called many things in my life, cold, sarcastic, intimidating and evil. I lie to protect people or to protect myself, truth be told the one thing I am is a coward. I am scared of loving you._

_You were always first and always will be first. But in being first, I made the decisions on your behalf, what was best for you was sometimes at odds with what you wanted. I can hear you whining, it's your life you should decide, I can see that now. I led you where I thought was best. Witnessing the life you have made for yourself, I cannot concede that I was wrong in those decisions. _

_I love you more now, if that is even possible, my love for you will never go away. When you and Rose have settled, you can make the decision. Go back to this life without me or write me an invitation. I will gratefully accept in a heartbeat._

_Love _

_Arthur._

He folded the paper over, placing it in an envelope and in cursive scroll wrote John. He positioned it on the table, hoping it would be taken as an understanding, not a betrayal. From his satchel, he pulled the one item he could think of that would express to John how deeply he loved him. The Onyx watch, a gift, sold to fund his new life, a pragmatic and reasonable decision. Arthur stole it back not wanting John to be without the token he cherished so dearly. Shifting gingerly, relishing the strain of their lovemaking, still dull and aching in his muscles. He found himself staying, collapsing on John's bed, inhaling his scent one last time. If those intoxicating aromas could just linger long enough, he would return and find himself welcome.

"John darling," Arthur froze, "I got some supplies on my way through Strawberry!" Scowling at the familiarity of which the caramel tones called for John. He crept to the doorway, studying the man as he moved confidently around John's kitchen as if it were his own. The beautiful man, with flex of mahogany in his brown curled hair, his tanned skin glistening like gold. His stature long and broad didn't suggest any experience of hardship, famine or brutality. The man who broke him so many years ago without any awareness that he existed. Arthur replayed his name _Giorgio_ as it left the cupid bow lips of his lover. _Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio_, was he still malevolent and cruel, was _darling_ a term of endearment or jester jousting crassly at his unsuspecting audience. 

Arthur coughed alerting him to his presence. The young man turned, his dimpled cheeks and sturdy jaw were alluring, emerald eyes enticing, they flashed for a moment, greeting him with enjoyment as they studied his form. Arthur shuffled on his loose hips finding purchase against the door frame, thumb laced through his belt loop, he was a master at aloof intimidation. This man was a character; indeed, he didn't tremble or ask for an explanation to who Arthur was, just curled an unnerving smirk and continued to unpack the additional supplies.

"John has taken Rose shopping," Arthur said, folding his arms. He was self-aware enough to know most people found him threatening, even when that was not his intention. Either Giorgio was suppressing his fear, a good actor, or he didn't have any, which made him worse.

"Oh, he found her then." Giorgio continued to unpack. "Should have guessed he would." His tone was off, neither joyful or sad, just intolerant. Giorgio relented, finding most of the cupboards already full, he chucked the last can on the table, using it as an excuse to rake his suspicious glare over Arthur.

"You don't seem overly pleased by that?" Arthur probed. He was tense, apparently not the only one to withhold the truth. His anger was not directed towards John having been an open book for most of his life, he sensed Giorgio was still around. No, this anger was towards Giorgio, if he were to take Arthur's place as Rose's Uncle then he needed to understand the importance of that, cherish every moment. This figure stood before him, plumage like a peacock, confident in his existence wasn't going to convince Arthur he deserved that title, not over him.

"No, can't say I am," Giorgio smirked. "John is a good worker, that child will distract him." He rolled the un-shelved can under his fingers, the dull sound rumbling across the wooden table, intentionally irritating. It didn't distract Arthur from his intense scrutiny of the man Giorgio. Arthur puffed up, his chest solid, a guerrilla fighting for his territory.

"Must be one hell of a worker if you do his shopping for him?" Arthur said sarcastically. "If you don't mind me saying." His smile licked upwards as he read the young man's almost faultless expression, Giorgio none the wiser to who he was and what he knew.

"And can I ask who might you be?" Giorgio was poised on his toes to make himself appear taller.

"Arthur Morgan, I am John's brother." Arthur gestured confidently, putting his hand out to shake. Giorgio sneered, grateful he lied, it would be fun unravelling the truth.

"He never mentioned a brother?" Giorgio accepted the hand, they were dancing, their grips bone-crushingly tight as they remained broad-chested, squaring each other up

"No, can't say he mentioned you." Arthur was proud of that truth when he watched Giorgio's smirk turn to a scowl. The younger man was in his sights, Giorgio's weakness revealed, his arrogance couldn't handle his existence denied. He was vain, and that vanity brought cruelty, and that was Giorgio.

"Giorgio Anderson," Giorgio responded. _Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio_, that name haunted his dreams for longer than he cared to admit.

"Anderson?" Arthur rushed a breath through his teeth in faux contemplation, "The ranch outside St-Denis."

"Yes, my parent's place." Giorgio spasmed. "You know it?"

"Been there once or twice." Arthur's blue iris' rolled grey, he had the boy, he was breaking, his confidence draining, soon he would be scared and pliable.

"They give you the money to buy this place?" Arthur asked causally, a cat taunting a mouse.

"Yes, not that it should be any of your concern!" Giorgio protested, sensing the question were invading, leading to nefarious conclusions. A mild heat, barely visible, was rising under his collar bone. Arthur could sense the blush of rage in him.

"Oh, I just wanted to pass on my thanks." Arthur sultry tones contrasted against the demonic possession curling across his features. "Mighty fine house, mighty fine furniture, sturdy, can take a pounding and still looks like new."

Giorgio bit his lip and rolled into a wicked smile. _Gotcha! _He thought. "If you think this is impressive you should visit the main house. Much more robust furniture there, bookshelves, dressers, drawers, they have all been subjected to appalling misuse over the years but have remained durable."

Arthur's stoic resolve would not break, not even with the flashing images of John and Giorgio entwined on all manner of furniture. The guilt and pain of their relationship flourishing while he sunk in the doldrums couldn't be revealed to this malevolent force. He held on, with one thought clear and pure, he was the only man who could lay claim to knowing John inside and out, that mattered.

"Maybe I will do that, on my next visit." Arthur tipped his hat and smiled radiantly.

"Yes, well," Giorgio grimaced, fumbling on what to say in retaliation. "There won't be room for _guests_ with Rose in the other bedroom" He finally wrestled his numb hand from Arthur's grip, shaking it to circulate the blood. 

"John and I never had issues with sharing a bed." Arthur winked at him

"When you were boys." Giorgio crowed at the absurdity of the suggestion. "You're grown men."

"Some habits are hard to break." Arthur rested once again on the door frame of John's room, marking his territory. He observed as Giorgio's eyes narrowed, the heat rising to his neck and cheeks. Arthur read it, defiance, it actually impressed him, the brat wasn't completely spineless, stupid but not spineless. He kicked at pace towards the boy called Giorgio, who flinched, his hands covering his face for protection. Arthur rumbled with laughter as he leant passed him and picked up the can that had been discarded.

"For the journey." He nodded in mocking gratitude. "Mmm peaches." His sultry southern drawl at full seduction. Arthur studied the can of segments provocatively. "Prefer mine whole, but this will have to do until I return."

Arthur left Giorgio gawping, in no doubt that Arthur had been sampling his favourite peach. Arthur rumbled with laughter as unhitched the two shires and began his slow and arduous journey back to the gang. Confident that this would be the last time he would leave John's side. John would forgive him, eventually, would understand, and when his anger abated, he would write to Arthur and ask him to come back.

Giorgio stood rigid as he heard the hooves of shires disappear into the distance. His hands tensed around the hard-wooden chair; the table set a gift from him. His mind filled with absurd and undignified images, had they, here at the table or was it just the bed, their bed, where they had so many times. He threw the chair, it clattered against the wall, unbroken. Giorgio was not strong enough to break a chair with his power. However, Giorgio didn't purchase cheap furniture, it was sturdy and well built. The type of chair that can only be bought with wealth, once that level of luxury was experienced, it was hard to go back to a cheaper version. John might sit in it for nostalgia, but that would eventually wear off, leaving him with splinters in his ass, begging for the comfortable chair back.

Giorgio picked the letter up left for John, he opened it and read it. No doubt at all John had been unfaithful. A cold rage flexed, spasms of coursing white heat, John would pay for this. He ripped the letter into tiny pieces, placed it into the bin. He found the torn-out pages of Arthur's failed attempts, they too were torn and disposed of, brushed out of the home and into the wind where they belonged.

Giorgio picked up the Onyx watch, unclasped the case and read the inscription.

J.M

Love

A.M

The memento was significant. He placed it in his pocket and returned to the farmhouse.


	26. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the most depressing chapter I have written so be warned. There are attempts at humour just to provide a bit of light-heartedness but I have read it twice now and I feel quite miserable.

Arthur was gone by the time they returned from Strawberry, John huffed with acceptance, having sensed it was coming. Arthur's rigidness at breakfast, his inability to formulate sentences that didn't scream abandonment, the trembling under his touch. Apparently unintentional, the cruel way in which his focus drifted, but John bore the hurt like it was the first time. Twelve, watching him leave camp to go on a job, telling John in no uncertain terms he could not go, he wasn't ready, Arthur didn't want him there. All delivered under the guise of protecting him. How could this be protection, turning up after so long, pulling the rug from under his feet, a rug he didn't even know was there. Revealing such barbaric realities about himself, ones when pieced together painted such darkness. 

Arthur allowed men to tie him up and abuse him. Its initial mention induced arousal, the scent of their lovemaking leading John's mind to a provocative amour, imagining him bound and begging. The sounds echoed in his ears, like rain on glass, pleading with him not to stop. As with all matters involving the man, it appeared one way, until another piece revealed made it something quite the opposite. Tied up by men to feed his predilection was debauched and lustful. It was the physical sating of his sexual appetites, who was John to judge, wishing such an indulgent experience to be shared. However, Arthur, revealing he slept with Dutch to usher in his own demise, indicated he wasn't feeding his predilection. Instead, the act fuelled his own depraved notion of himself. He constructed an environment where he could prove himself worthless and inadequate, physically and mentally chained, submitting, all to entertain the idea of ending it all. 

It destroyed John that he hadn't identified it, Arthur, his Arthur, always self-deprecating, thoughtful, placing others need before his own. There were tinges of sadness, well concealed, only revealed when he decided but mostly, he was just Arthur, his stoic, brave warrior. How did that become so twisted that he saw himself as insignificant? John, ever behind the curve, was too late. Confident he could restore that which was lost, with a bit of time and careful treading, Arthur would come to cherish himself as John cherished him. That is why he ran, incapable of allowing himself to believe that love was possible. Not an act of defiance, not denying John's passion. There was no doubting that was a tangible element, a deaf, dumb and blind man couldn't refuse its existence. No Arthur ran because after so long alone in the wilderness, he was terrified of considering he might be worthy of any kind of devotion.

To not leave a note or even say goodbye, having spoken of blame, betrayal and forgiveness was this just another fault to add to the never-ending list. This time it was not only John who endured the grief but poor Rose, who pined, indignant to his reassurance that their protector would return when he was ready. She became accusatory, you shouted at him, you argued, no wonder he left, why would he stay to be yelled at. It was a wretched upheaval, to balance his own sorrow, need and want with the needs and wants of Rose. Although on the surface, they were the same, they came from different places, one of knowledge and the other of ignorance. To attempt to manage the damage, while returning to a semblance of his ordinary life, maintain the farm having neglected it in pursuit of Rose's safety. To try and fathom where Giorgio fit, all this while his presence lingered, it was becoming burdensome. Arthur wanted him to remember, but his main recollection was how running away was always his go-to option when he felt intolerable pressure.

Giorgio kept a frigid distance, John caught glances of him sneering, leering, a malicious curt smile on his face as he was studied from afar. The most precious gift Giorgio ever gave him was the deed to the land. A gift delivered in the summer of their passion, at peak heat, he often thought how Giorgio must regret the act. To have John, his lover, as a neighbour made sense when their love orbited like celestial giants in the sky. When he was Mercury to Giorgio's Sun, recently he felt like Pluto cold and displaced barely in his universe. Still, he remained orbiting, remained a neighbour.

John did all he could think to do, buried his head, suppressed the pain and toiled his day on the farm, thanked Theodore for that rigidness to his ethic. In their short time together, Theodore had instilled in him that religious belief of abiding one's pain, as one day he would be rewarded for it. He carried it in the hope those in his life who appeared set on torturing him came to their senses and released him from his purgatory.

It was in his sleep, the real horror of his limbo played out. Arthur, having begged him to remember, for Rose's sake, guided in a flood of broken memories, out of context, they didn't make sense. Whether it was Giorgio tormenting him, Rose running away, Clara's savagery, Arthur's absence, one image always arrived at some point. Arthur bleeding, Arthur hurt, Arthur hurting himself "Arthur, why are you bleeding?" Most nights, he would wake himself screaming, a cold sweat dampening the bedsheets. He was a scrambled mess; Arthur goddamn Morgan had spent a week in his company and left him in the worst state ever. Confused and lonely, with more questions than answers. The dreams weren't real, Arthur bleeding was, not some premonition, it felt as though it already happened. But when and why, why didn't he know about something he was part of.

"You were yelling again." Rose popped her head through the doorway. Her silences were only broken by her judgements of him.

"It's ok, go back to sleep." It was more a command than reassurance. There were very few things John was unwilling to share but unburdening himself of his night terrors didn't feel appropriate.

"Do you want to sleep in my room." She offered. Less a suggestion borne of mutual support more a pragmatic experiment in the hope that her closeness would usher in some much-needed rest for both of them. John shook his head; he was fine on his own. When the night closed in the bed appeared larger, the gaping hole where Arthur was supposed to be stretched out further. He got up and joined Rose who huffed and turned, placed a hand in his. Comfort she was willing to forfeit, but it would come at a price.

Life slowly settled, with bumpy fits and starts, they gained a routine. He worked harder to chase the nightmares away, sought refuge in Rose's bed when that failed to work, she didn't appear to mind the interruption. Accepting that Arthur left a hole that was proving challenging to fill. Still detached, still cold towards him, forming reasons to why Arthur left, most ended in blaming John. Her unforgiving thoughts juxtaposed with her softness and willingness for him to rest with her. Having promised Arthur she would look after John, that was a promise Rose was determined to keep, even if she blamed him for Arthur leaving, she couldn't let her Uncle down.

"Rose sit down," John commanded; finally, he conceded that they couldn't go on.

"What?" She said petulantly.

"We need to set some rules." He said sternly. Regaining his wolfish demeanour even if inside he felt like a helpless cub. 

"Ok," She responded with a lacklustre charm, emitting all the enthusiasm of a child being told to do their chores.

"Ok." He said, trying to reassure himself, repeating her words to give him pause for thought. "So, you need to go to school." She didn't respond. Having already been to school for many years with the Jameson's she had already considered and accepted that John would eventually expect her to go.

"I have spoken with the Head Mistress Miss Kershaw; she expects you on Monday." He held his breath, waiting for the backlash.

"Is that it?" She responded belligerently, a warning that John wasn't living up to her expectations or he was, and she didn't like it.

"No, that is not it, madam" He was harsh, tired and unwilling to bend to her will. "From now on you are Rose Marston, you are my daughter, in public, you will refer to me as Father or Sir." Rose bulked at the command, her expression bewildered, whose benefit was this charade for, she wondered. 

"Rose Morgan sounds better." She lied, but it was a cruel tactical response in an attempt to remind him of how upset she was.

"Arthur is gone Rose I wish you would just accept it." He growled, losing himself in a fit of jealousy over her unrelenting ownership of the man.

"If you didn't shout at him, he wouldn't be gone." She screamed, her eyes welling with tears.

"I never shouted at him." He huffed defeated; it was the stoned silence which killed them.

"I want Arthur!" She shrieked in a tantrum fuelled rage, convinced if she shouted loud enough, he would appear like some genie out of a bottle. How could John educate her that life was not a fairy tale in one of her books.

"I want Arthur too, but he doesn't want us," John answered. A weak attempt at reasoning where none was necessary, there was not rationalising the irrational tournaments of a ten-year-old.

"No, he doesn't want you because...you...are.... horrible." The punctuated sentence shot through his heart. She got up and ran to her room, slamming the door for extra effect. John noted to himself the door will need reinforcing; it wasn't designed to withstand Rose's outbursts. As unpalatable as their arguments were at least they were noise. Sat alone in his kitchen, the dim gaslight barely illuminating the dingy space he dared to call home. He was stuck, contemplating how long could he go on for before madness or ferocity consumed him. The wolf had always been equal measure with the doe, now the doe was dying, she couldn't go on with such savagery. The wolf dominant and supreme would find itself locked in an iron cage, no means of escape. Trapped until it too faded and died, leaving a husk of a human that used to be called John Marston.

Getting ready for the first day of school resembled a game of cards played by two inebriated clowns at dawn. They both slept late, which didn't help, John managed to burn breakfast so Rose refused to eat it. Her outfit, denim jeans and a shirt he bought for riding and not school but she refused to change. She accidentally, intentionally lost the comb, so they both appeared to have gone through a hedge backwards. And to top it all off, Jezebel was in one of her more boisterous moods and either refused to move or when she did, she went the wrong way. Trying to steer Jezebel and untangle Rose's knotted hair was a two-man job, Arthur was letting the side down. They arrived just in time to watch the last straggler run in behind the indomitable fortress of the Head Mistress Miss Kershaw. Her lanky frame consumed the doorway, arms folded with a stern expression on her face. She was a young woman, probably John's age. Still, she displayed all the component parts of a Grimshaw in the making, the battle-axe temperament stitched in every fibre. From the dress that covered every inch of flesh, to the tight bun that sat atop her head, pulling her skin tight, accentuating the fierceness of her eyes.

"Better you than me, kid." He said absentmindedly. Rose laughed at him understanding instantly his fear of the woman. It made him laugh too her momentary lapse in anger towards him felt rewarding. Then he realised how manipulative kids are, giving warmth in vague moments of idleness, she would be mad at him by the end of the day. Rose wasn't intimidated by Miss Kershaw, the woman appeared to have a daunting bark, but Rose could bite, hard. John lifted her off Jezebel, knelt before her. Her ocean blue eyes and puffed-up rosy cheeks still made her appear younger than she was.

"Just." John wanted to say something inspirational like Dutch used to do but kill those that need killing wasn't appropriate for the first day of school, maybe the second but not the first. "Just behave yourself." Was all that came out, there was no point in pretending Rose wasn't a monster when she wanted to be. There was no point pretending he was a model father, one that didn't succumb to every insult and greet it with his own hostility. The reality harsh and true was they only had each other, and that would have to do. John ran his fingers one last time through her knotted hair. Watching as she entered the schoolhouse, he just prayed her grit would get her through, kids were cruel at the best of times, Rose, for some unknown reason, wanted to be different. Instantly making herself a target for their cruelty.

"Mr Marston, when I agreed to take Rose halfway through term it was on the understanding, she would be punctual." Miss Kershaw reprimanded him.

"Punctuality is next to Godliness; it won't happen again." He blurted out in an attempt to appear knowledgeable and intelligent.

"That is cleanliness, Sir, another attribute you may both want to work on." She turned on her heel, the laughter of the children instantly stopped as she entered the schoolhouse. John released an uncomfortable quiver, like someone had woken the dead. That woman probably could bother the dead back into life, he mentally christened her the beast.

John returned home, checked in on the labourers, entertaining them with his tales of the beast of Kershaw. They had been loyal over the years, one thing John was good at was judging character, they became quite a tight-knit group of fellas. Most were married to the maids of the house and had children of their own, the beast of Kershaw was a premonition for their not too distant futures.

As breakfast was a blowout, he returned to the homestead and made himself lunch of eggs and greens, picked from his garden. He hadn't got a chance to show Arthur, missing the opportunity to impress, one, by John not killing every plant and two, he could grow his own, John left him space. Arthur inspired John with the idea, he always showed an interest in exotic and wild plants, for food and medicines. He sighed, if he had played it better, not been so caught up in his own thoughts, John could have sold this life to him and then he might have stayed.

"Mr Marston, the farm doesn't run itself." Giorgio stood in the doorway, eyeing up his prodigal lover. It tickled John, having spent the last four years ploughing Giorgio's fields he still tried to act formally when he was mad, it made him look foolish.

"Yes Mr Anderson, that is the joy of being a manager, I run the farm." John cut into his eggs, laid fresh that morning. "We aren't all gifted the luxury of a rich daddy to take care of us." John jibed, Giorgio was a simple creature to annoy, his family's wealth and the word daddy usually did the trick.

"Clara isn't happy about Rose!" He shouted, his rancour evident, stinging with all the bile of a malignant tumour. He invited himself in, pacing the floor, ready to have it out with John. This was Giorgio's style of argument all over, go through a preconceived list of problems until the truth would eventually out, in snarls of contorted venom. The farm was obsolete, Giorgio didn't care for it or Clara for that matter. John felt duty-bound to respond to the question of the dragon’s displeasure over his new living arrangements.

"When has her happiness ever been my concern?" John said coldly, dipping bread into the golden yolk of the eggs. His daily ritual, an act of defiance to the woman that scorned his very existence. After all these years Giorgio still expected him to care. "I have other things to worry about."

"What about my happiness John?" He growled, edging John's anger, the Giorgio he detested the most was the spoilt brat who couldn't empathise. He couldn't miss the opportunity to snarl back, not now the crux of the matter was nearing. For what Giorgio cared for most, more than anything was Giorgio.

"Oh Giorgio, what does it feel like? He chucked his half-eaten dinner in the sink and turned to face the stampeding bull of a man. "The moment you realise the world doesn't revolve around you."

Giorgio closed the space between them with an unexpected pace, swung for John, his fist connecting with the side of his face. John would have been outraged, mortified, but his accuracy was shocking. A trickle of warmth rolled down his chin, he licked and confirmed it was blood. This appeared an interesting development to their relationship, was its John's turn to be the battered wife. He would happily assume the role, give the poor woman a break, but unlike her, John would fight back.

"Was it worth it?" Giorgio screamed. "Worth spreading your legs for him, he obviously found it a moving experience, couldn't get out of here quick enough." John's expression sunk, his riled lover was jealous, but how did he know?

"You saw him?" John squalled with fear, not for Giorgio's piece of mind but for Arthur, he hadn't told Arthur.

"He saw me, John, didn't take him long to work it out." Giorgio swung again, this time connecting with his eye socket, still inexact, he yelped in pain, his knuckles throbbing, still hurting from the crippling handshake. John didn't move, the flying fists more an annoyance like a buzzing bee than any great violence. Another skill Arthur gave him the ability to endure pain. While it was amusing, he did not laugh, he still loved him enough not to laugh. Giorgio stopped pacing, having never beaten John with force, not force alone. He relaxed, he could destroy this revived liaison, break John and build him back into the compliant lover he used to be.

"I must say he was a bit surprised you didn't mention me." Giorgio licked a wicked smile of victory. "He looked betrayed."

Any word but that would have left him broken, apologetic, seeking time and space for his thoughts, but betrayed riled him, his blood was on fire. He pulled his revolver and pointed it at Giorgio's head.

"Get out." He said slowly with intent.

"My killer, he's back." Giorgio laughed sardonically. "Perhaps the visit from Arthur is just what you needed."

"Get out!" He roared chasing Giorgio who squealed with exhilaration as he ran through the door which was slammed behind him. John collapsed against in, _Goddamnit_ Arthur, the timbre of his voice breaking under strain filled the room. His muscles melted under him as he hugged the floor, eyes streaming with tears. John wrestled with the thought of history repeating itself, the roles reversed. How he reacted upon discovering Arthur and Dutch, he ran, left Arthur, now the same thing was happening. At least Arthur had the decency not to tear strips out of him before leaving, call him on every failing. John deserved this, it was a lesson he had to learn, one without Arthur. His Outlaw was gone, again, seemingly broken and now betrayed, what if he did the unthinkable, ended it, what was the point in continuing.


	27. Peace

John's grief sat like a bruise on his heart that would not heal. A yearning, a foreboding to the inevitable, not pain, not unbearable or crippling, he didn't stop working or cooking or parenting. He abided its presence, punishment for his betrayal. The melancholy was not a force of constant pressure more a wave that arrived with thunderous tumult, broke and dispersed, providing rest and calm until the next one rolled violently in. He owned each one, grateful for the reminder of the loss, the significance of the bond broken. Each needed to be absorbed and observed because it meant something, more than anything, and now it was gone. With no word or sign, he was convinced the unthinkable had happened. All he could rely on was his senses, his knowledge of Arthur, a lifetime of studying the man. All of which pointed to his last breath, having escaped his full gracious lips. What he would give to breathe life back into them, to return the colour from the grey and say sorry one last time. Before he departed, taking his rightful place in the stars where he belonged, it was selfish to hope he deserved more.

He clung to the mundane tasks of his life, breaking each one down into titular easy to follow instructions, one foot in front of the other. A constant focus on the job at hand, any deviation would cause a wandering of his mind to a place he did not wish to go. Arthur, cold to his touch, still resplendent in the icy grip of death. His hair immaculate, a few strands carelessly dropping to the front of his crown. His paleness unnatural to his once intoxicating warmth, accentuating his features, his sharp cheekbones now present as his flesh dispersed from under the skin. The cartilage of his many time's broken nose, once bulbous, almost snout-like, fragmented into nothingness. The scar on his chin, pale and fading, like all of him, disappearing and there was nothing he could do about it.

A knock at the door distracted him from his dark thoughts, inhaling a broken and stuttered breath in an attempt to compose himself for the greeting of a guest. He shouted for Rose to get ready for school, she was myopic to his demands, especially around the subject of school, seeing her attendance as a punishment rather than a gift.

"Hello, Mr Marston." John almost stumbled as his unexpected and potentially harmful guest stood in his doorway.

"Mrs Anderson." He gulped fear and guilt prickling his skin in equal measure. The rain pouring fast and hard against her dainty parasol did not encourage his manners any. He wasn't intentionally rude, the shock more than anything overwhelmed him, making him dumb, filling his mouth with copious amounts of air and nothing else. Three years and not once had she seen fit to wander or purposefully invade his patch of land. By rights he could expel her immediately, her intrusion unwanted, certainly not welcome. He hesitated, she stood clumsily with a large box precariously balanced under her one arm and the dainty parasol swaying in the other. Her dress was worn and unkempt, not the style she was known for, its blackness raked against his heart. Was she mourning him too, the unknown visitor, an unexplained entity that she couldn't place in this world but felt the significance of his departure all the same.

"Can I come in?" She requested bemused by his lack of breeding. Clara stamped her feet in the muddy puddle that congregated in the hole beneath steps of his home. He had meant to fill it with some fresh soil from the garden, these days there was a growing list of things he intended to do, delayed by his incessant need to grieve. John nodded to her, opening the door wider to usher in her arrival. Clara Anderson was in his home, any other time that would have been significant, a potential thawing of relations. Still, with his bruised heart and addled mind the actions of others were mere puppetry in a performance he no longer wanted any part in.

"I heard that Rose has started at School?" She said, placing the lavish box on the table. Unlike most who entered a new and unknown place, she didn't look around. Didn't scope the setting as any outlaw worth his salt would have done three times over by now. She didn't judge the interior, audibly tutting at its meagreness, as many of her kind were inclined to do. She just kept her eyes fixed on the box, as she removed layers of translucent paper and began to place its contents on the table.

"Yes, she is getting ready." John offered as some sort of comment, he was barely had the ears to listen or the eyes to see what she was doing. A little bit shaky from loss and little perplexed from her presence, he pinched himself to check he hadn't died, this was his vision of hell.

"Ah, the reason I am here." She said confidently, but the timbre of her voice was weak, exhausted. Was she finally defeated, a dragon from Arthurian ledged slew Excalibur? Sadly, he stopped wielding that sword long ago. No, her demise was not his doing, he couldn't blame himself for another broken human being, two was quite enough. Perhaps that was it, she was diminished because his fire had gone out, maybe he was the dragon, without him to fight she lost her purpose. 

"Miss Kershaw is a dear friend of mine," Clara confirmed.

"There's a surprise." He muffled under his breath, the beast and the dragon, had a nice ring to it.

"What?" She questioned, her nose wrinkling as though she smelled something was off.

"What a surprise," He tried to say gleefully, a weak attempt to conceal his sarcasm.

"Yes, well, she commented that Rose has rather a peculiar fashion sense, not one appropriate for the classroom." She pulled out a dress, white with pink bows, Rose would hate it, which made him smile. "I defended you a little, men don't have eyes for such things and with no woman…." She trailed off, John allowed it to sink, it wasn't a jibe or joust just a fear of treading. He was actually impressed; the dragon possessed a sense of decorum and propriety. She couldn't allow herself to be rude in someone else's home. Even if that someone was John, her husbands installed lover.

"I have a few things that should fit her." She began to pull out dress after dress, all over-elaborate, over-engineered with frills and lace and spoke of an elegant child, not Rose. Passing him garment after garment as he began to drown in a sea of pleated gowns. "They were mine as a girl, I couldn't bear to part with them." Clara paused; a stifled croak of longing filled the room. "Silly really, I suppose I thought I would have a daughter one day I could hand them down to her." The guilt returned, he felt mortified at his enjoyment of her awkwardness, her awful dresses, her lack of knowledge about children, or mainly Rose. In fairness, he was just as inept when it came to kids in general. He was a bad man, she was trying to help, and all he could muster was petty thoughts and smirks behind her back.

"Please, you might still have a daughter, keep them" Was all he could think to say, rushing the pile back to the box.

"You are an optimist Mr Marston; I can see why he is attracted to you." Her words were profound and kind, almost dismissive of the fact that it was her husband she was talking about. "I think optimism is not enough, a miracle of biblical proportions is needed to fertilise my baron womb." She let out a sigh, so soft and laced with aching that she instantly corrected herself, flashing the most beguiling smile, radiant and beautiful. It was like her pain didn't matter, that propriety meant her feelings were insignificant, the dragon was melting his heart.

"What happened to your face." She said with genuine concern. The bruise on his eyes now purple and a scab crusted on his lip.

"I walked into a door." Was his flattened response. What could he say; your husband_, my lover, punched me in a fit of jealousy. Because I let another man, a gorgeous, generous man, whose presence and love eclipses Giorgio's, do unspeakable, undignified, sinful, beautiful things to me? _

"I have met a few doors since moving here." She smiled again, sensing his awkwardness to the topic, this time with an acknowledgement of kindred spirits, he was hooked.

"Anyway, this is for Rose." Her long slender fingers caressed the lace intimately, saying goodbye to her dresses and her dreams. "She doesn't deserve to suffer because of ...well, you know."

John was mute and slightly gawping if his mind functioned, he was sure it would tell him his tongue was on the floor. Her dignity was breath-taking, poised and elegant, what he would give to have his Clara back, the battle-axe who tried to deny him eggs, the dragon who wanted to burn his home with him in it. Where was the master strategist of war that outmanoeuvred and outgunned him every step of the way? He thought to check her pulse, perhaps she was dead, and this was her hell, the only way out was acts of kindness outside of her nature.

"I want you to know, I blame you both equally." She finally said, picking up her discarded wet parasol. "The sickness between you, it might be superstitious of me, but the sin you share is why I don't have a Rose." She opened the door and turned to him, this time, her smile and sadness were suppressed by a motivation to speak her mind. "I hope you understand I can never forgive you for taking away my purpose, the only purpose a woman has that is her own." Then she left, left him dumbfounded and heartbroken and all the feelings and urges he would never attribute to having had towards that woman. But her final words, purpose, in discovering his he had stripped her of that last gasp of hope she must have been harbouring. It wasn't his slaying, he could not take credit, it was Rose, his Excalibur.

"Who was that?" Rose inquired, leaving her bedroom none the wiser to what had taken place.

"I don't know." He said still entranced by the whole interaction.

"You don't know?" Rose scowled at him as she always did when he was stupid.

"Yes, I don't know." He said proactively, whatever that apparition that visited him as he couldn't claim it was Clara Anderson.

"What are these?" She pointed to the garments placed where she expected her breakfast to be.

"They are your new school clothes." He said with charming glee. He lamented how little fun Rose could be, she didn't try. He and Arthur used to be intolerably cruel to one other, always on the understanding that the next person would say something a little worse until it escalated into a fight. While a physical battle with Rose was not possible, they could at least enjoy the start, the barbed, witty remarks, that mocking and mimicked, those halcyon days he longed for. No, Rose just went into a full temper tantrum, she kicked and screamed, but it was the furniture that got bruised.

"Let me get this straight I have to dress as a fairy, to keep a woman you don't even like, happy." She was calming, it was her burst blood vessel stage of anger. The rage subsiding because the pressure had exploded and left her exhausted.

"No, you have to dress like a fairy because you are a little girl and that is how little girls dress." He smiled at her, of course he was sacrificing her comfort to bring a morsel of solace to Clara. That's what Morgan's do, they put the needs of others before their own. If she was determined to remind him, she preferred the moniker Rose Morgan, she could carry the weight of responsibility that came with that name. He relished the thought of Rose being older. Not too old, not mature enough for boys and independence but old enough that their arguments could be more meaningful. He was gathering his evidence, logging it away in the recesses of his mind. Waiting for the point when he could crush her spirit and build her into a decent, respectable human being.

The dresses were finally worn to school, it took days of the most monumental arguments, both drawing every ounce of stubbornness from within. John was grateful he was older and taller, so had more reserves to pull from. He was lying to himself, Arthur's trick or parenting style, he couldn't decide. She finally agreed when he promised they would go to St-Denis in the spring and she could buy herself a whole new wardrobe. The comedown stuck in his throat, how over-joyed almost teary he had been when Javier bought him his first outfit, his own clothes. Rose didn't possess such gratitude for a whole wardrobe of outfits being offered. He heard himself grumbling about respect for one's elders and then shivered and reminded himself he was 24 and not 42. 


	28. Honesty

John needed a break, not running away, just a night off from it all, a little escape from his reality. Typically, he moved to the only place that possessed a dry town, not a drop of liquor in the whole area. Those in need of sweet nectar usually had to request in advance, an errand boy in the town made trips to Valentine and would drop it off discreetly at a designated place. He had missed the last run, so his cupboards were bare, he didn't think to get something when they were passing through with Arthur. Well, he did, but there is nothing that screams unsuitable parent like a create of whiskey. He pondered, wondering if the thaw in relations had been such that he could approach the farmhouse and ask for a drink. He chuckled to himself, Clara gave no impression he would be welcome, and Giorgio punched him in the face; if that was thawing, he dreaded winter. No, abstinence no matter how involuntary was all he could look forward to.

It was dusk, the sky grey with pale blue shimmers as the day took one final gasp of breath before it died. He knocked on the door of the farmhouse with no authority, his wrist limp possessed more self-preservation than his mind. But for all its attempts at quietness, his knock was heard, and a light lit up the doorway. Clara opened the door and greeted him with the same expression she received at his door, not sour or angry, just disbelieving.

"He's not here John, he is playing poker with some friends." She said softly. She called him John which made his mouth stick shut, his eyes bulged slightly as he tried to suppress his thanks that Giorgio wasn't there, he had no interest in seeing him, not yet.

"Um, do you fancy a drink?" He said hesitantly. Her face recoiled in a bemused and uncontrolled manner. Then her expression changed, it softened.

"Ok, I presume I have to supply the alcohol." She cocked an eyebrow, he laughed and nodded. "Wait there." She murmured begrudgingly. John took a seat on the swinging chair; it was installed after his expulsion as part of the new renovations. It was neatly placed, positioned, so the view opened up past the barns, capturing the segmented vista, the outward terrain leading to the peaks of Mount Shan in the distance. Clara returned with two glasses, a bottle, and a paper wedged between her arm, she handed John the glasses and then the bottle and waited for him to pour.

"We used to sit out here in the summer." She offered as a way of idle chit-chat. "It is so beautiful when the sun begins to set, the colours are magnificent." He passed her a glass.

"It is beautiful, I like living here." He responded; their words could so quickly edge on an argument. Yet, they were delivered tenderly, without provocation, just two neighbours musing on their existence.

"Rose will need new clothes come spring." He said.

"Yes, Children do grow John." She giggled. He was glad she was so pragmatic, shaming him again for thinking she couldn't cope with the reality.

"I have agreed to take her shopping in St Denis, I don't know where she gets her desire for fancy things from." He mumbled, as though his influence would have anything to do with Rose's desires and wants or perceived need. She was the product of someone else's union, delivered to him by someone else hand. "Would you…" he trailed off; the thawing was nowhere near the melt required for such a request.

"Go on." She said her beguiling smile crossing her face, she was enjoying his torment.

"Would you come with us?" He paused, watching her reaction, she was about to say no, but he pressed. "You said yourself, she needs a woman's influence in her life and I am neither going to be that or provide it."

"Ok," She relented. "But you can tell Giorgio you are stealing his wife away for a weekend in the big city." There was a wickedly provocative tone to her voice, perhaps she desired to be stolen away from her husband, even for just a weekend.

"I shall let the door know in advance." John downed his whiskey, a tinge of red blush crossed his cheeks, not a promise he was looking forward to keeping. Then she laughed, it was in itself funny, slightly too breathless as if she was stopping herself from losing control. Nevertheless, by trying to be restrained, she sounded deranged, it was adorable. He poured them another drink, as he felt able to. To his surprise, the conversation stopped, they sat in silence, rocking gently. John allowed himself to be lost in the dissipating flecks of amber as the sun went to rest. Clara read her paper, it felt peaceful, as though it was something they had always done. He wavered his comfort in her presence inexplicable and definitely must be one-sided. He questioned whether the paper was a sign she wanted him to leave, too polite and proper to verbally demand his exit.

"Sorry, it's a ritual, I need to know what is happening in the world." She said, feeling his uncertainty and her need to justify herself to him.

"Oh yes, the Blackwater ledger, scintillating, the society pages are a real hoot." He chuckled.

"Very droll, I don't read it for that." She scorned, and with it, another radiating glance was delivered, one he would hold on to. "I love the crime, disgusting, I know, but it's so exciting and thrilling." Her boisterous mannerisms were captivating, delivered with deviancy and naughtiness, playfully and fun. John mused how he could have lived alongside her but have never really seen her.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you lived that life." John offered in the way of insight. She rolled her eyes; it might be perverse, but she deserved a little titillation.

"Go on then what exciting crimes have taken place, stolen garments from the washing line, a missing pet or my favourite; drunk man drowns in a puddle!" John recalled some of the duller headlines he had bothered to scan in his time living in Big Valley. Alcohol for all its sins at least provided vibrancy that could deliver scorn and delight in equal measure. Here the most exciting topic of discussion was the weather, to rain or not to rain.

"All serious to the victims, I am sure." She smirked, not willing to relent to his sceptic's view of the world. "No, a gang hit the ferry. Apparently, they found out money is moved from the bank in Blackwater by ferry." Her eyes darted seductively across the page as she absorbed the detail to regale her newly captivated audience. "The Van Linde Gang."

"The Van Der Linde Gang." He corrected dryly, trying to conceal his knowledge of the gang to her.

Her eyes darted again. "Yes, do you know of them?"

"I used to...No, I used to read about them in the paper, they are quite a prolific bunch." He felt himself shrinking, wanting to hide but also grab the paper and absorb every scrap of information. To think they were in Blackwater, so close and yet so far. John knew nothing of them, didn't consider to ask when Arthur was around, or thought to and then thought against it. To ask casually how each one of them was doing when he hadn't been in contact, didn't write or let them know he was safe. John didn't deserve the warmth of their activities or the concern he now felt for their safety. Yet he pined, all the same, they must have known about Arthur, where he fell. Or maybe they didn't, perhaps he didn't return, just went off and did it. They might think he is still in St Denis, keeping a low profile. To imagine, John arriving for comfort about his dead brother and none of them any the wiser, such a cruel way to discover the truth.

"So, I am not the only one who enjoys the dark side." Clara offered, unaware of the unravelling John.

"I prefer the Society pages if I am honest." He deflected, finding safety in humour.

"Well, we can read them after, let me finish, it's getting good." She cocked an eyebrow and continued to read. "The gang, six strong were stormed by the police, a girl was shot by their leader Dutch and sadly died." It made his bones shake hearing Dutch's name against his crimes, why couldn't Arthur see him for what he really was, a vicious killer. If the reckoning had come sooner, maybe Arthur would still be alive.

"They were able to escape once again thanks to the expert shot of the fabled enforcer Arthur Morgan." John's eyes blew, ripping the paper from her hands. He tried to find the location; it couldn't be right. "fabled enforcer Arthur Morgan, pinned the fire down as the rest escaped. Like a ghost he was gone, the gang were chased North, but a snowstorm blew in and prevented onward pursuit." He dropped the paper, overwhelmed with joy and much against his own nature, he scooped the frail frame of Clara into his arms.

"Clare he is alive, he's alive." He jumped with her like an excited child. Arthur would be pissed off, angry with him but it didn't matter, he was alive and that meant he could forgive. She became overwhelmed by his excitement, accepting the rough jostling and tussling of his exuberant movements. Allowing herself a moment of indulgence in them and then she paused at the ridiculousness.

"Ok he's alive" She stuttered a breathless giggle. "Who is he?"

He crashed instantly from his delightful high, releasing her from his arms. He became reticent, his unfaithfulness to Giorgio he could stomach; after all, Giorgio had the best of both worlds. No, betraying Clara, the wronged partner in all of it was too much to bear. She gave an aura of begrudging acceptance towards him and Giorgio and now like a spoilt brat he was going to through it back in her face. Tell her that he is no longer interested in prize they had fought tooth and nail to win. Now, at this moment he dreamed of, Clara finally finding room to accommodate this other relationship; he ever fickle and contrary was about to tell her he didn't want it.

"Was he the door, John" She released him from his torment,

"The reason for it, yes." So many words could have passed through his lips, justifications, attempts at explanations, an apology, she deserved that much. Yet, she, the woman he despised the most had an understanding manner, he was an open book to her as he had always been to those with a kind heart and a soul.

"Do you know I have been so awfully jealous of you?" She collapsed back to her seat but kept her eyes fixed on his, determined to reveal her truth with sincerity, no matter how embarrassing.

"Not for that!" She mocked when the ferocity of his gaze intensified, suggesting his mind could only consider jealousy towards the physical. "I am in receipt of that just as much as you." She thought to offer in case there was any doubt. "No, I hear the maids speak of you when they don't think I am listening." Clara patted the chair next to him and curled up on her side, her hand propped against her cheek for support warmed him once again to her intoxicating presence.

"They speak highly of you, work ethic, loyalty, you treat their husbands well. People like you." It was tinged with pain, John never considered that Clara may feel lonely, or unloved or even that people didn't like her. John was remote from her needs, revelled in that remoteness too many times. He now felt intolerable guilt towards the way he treated her.

"Then there is your stubbornness and your certainty." She continued. "You carry yourself confidently. Not many would leave their home and job to rescue a child they hadn't seen in years and didn't know where she was." Her hands now flew through the air with the absurdity of it all. "But off you go without hesitation or pause. It was quite the talk of the town. Then you come back, the impossible child in situ and you carry on like it's the most normal thing in the world." Clara took a breath, realising she had spoken more in this short visit with John than she had to most people she claimed to know. "To have an ounce of your bravery, your assurance. Of course, you have two lovers, you are all heart and fire, very potent, and I imagine quite addictive." Feeling slightly exhausted by her confession, she softened her tone and presented her justification for such musings on the man. "I am jealous because I am proper, well-groomed and so utterly terribly boring, the only excitement in my life is the stories in the paper."

John was once again left speechless. How long had she felt this way, noticed these perceived notions of him, all wildly inaccurate and ruthlessly kind in their summary? What could he say in response, I am terribly jealous of you because I wanted Giorgio in my bed, not yours. How petty and contrived he felt, that for all his wanting and desire it remained steadfast in the physical, like that was all there ever was and ever will be. He and Giorgio were lust personified, while that burnt bright like the mid-summer sun, it now withered in the cold evening air. Pathetic in comparison to what he felt for Arthur and pitiful in contrast to his growing feelings towards Clara. Those feelings might not be physical, he wasn't tempted to change the habit of a lifetime, but love could come in many forms. If he considered all the people he claimed to have loved over the years, Arthur and Rose were clearly joint top of that list. Then there was Hosea and Susan, mother and father. Even Joseph, Theodore and the Sister all cared for him when he really had not earnt or deserved such kindness. None of them required physical interaction as payment for their acts, they were just grateful to bestow their love on someone who clearly needed it.

"It doesn't feel like that I can assure you." He finally spoke, dredging his heart for an equal measure of honest. "I am a little bit broken by it all, scared of the past and future and the present." He clasped his hands together, finding strength in his sweaty palms. "Rose hates me, we haven't had a day without arguing." He turned to her, his eyes large and teary. "Two lovers, neither of which is talking to me because of the other. If that is excitement, give me boring any day."

She picked up the bottle and poured two more generous glasses of whisky. Handing one to John with a weak and consolatory smile:

"To us and being slightly broken." the glasses clinked together, any notion they once had of each other, any gleam of envy or jealousy melted away.

"Do you love him?" She asked.

"Giorgio" He stuttered, expecting such a question.

"No, Arthur" She shot back in disdain. "If you love Giorgio then I take back all those kind words I said." He laughed a little, unsure if he should be, unsure of his feelings towards Giorgio. Then he nodded, "I love Arthur, always have, and I always will, love isn't a strong enough word."

"That's beautiful, I am jealous again." She sipped her drink, staring out into the distance, past the farm, into the abyss imagining what love felt like.

They were tipsy and wobbly by the time they finished, Giorgio's favourite malt blends a little worse for wear, she would probably pay for that.

"He's going to think I am an old lush now." She giggled uncontrollably. "Or worst that I have had a male visitor." Hiccupping from the alcohol. "Can you imagine the look on his face if he found out it was you." She said with malicious intent, that would hurt him or at least confuse him.

"Well if he gives you any trouble you send him around to me, I will sort him out." They both squealed with laughter at John's faux attempt at authority, the vague innuendo and the sad reality that had been their relationship. If he wasn't with one, he was with the other, neither capable of satisfying him in any meaningful way.

"This was fun, we should do it again sometime." She offered, and he nodded and waved her goodbye. Stumbling and yelling in the dark as he returned home, a new friend, Arthur alive, it was a somewhat successful evening.


	29. Change

Arthur often called John black and white, he always took it as an insult. As though Arthur was accusing him of lacking depth or seeing choice as something simple, good or bad, nothing in between, Doe or Wolf. A year had passed since Arthur left, and while he was still alive, the gang were making too much noise tearing up and down the southern states not to be reported. John was discovering why having a black and white attitude didn't necessarily fit with how the world really was.

He and Clara were now the best of friends, she displaying a real aptitude for business was now, with his help, running the farm. The beast Miss Kershaw identified that Rose was intelligent beyond her years and offered to tutor her outside of school. It was mainly to try and stop her being so disruptive at school, it appeared to work. Rose didn't have tantrums anymore; instead, she beat him with reasoned arguments. Far too-rational and thoughtful to even engage, let alone try and win. She was definitely more Morgan than Marston.

It was a peculiar existence; one he did not see coming or could have guessed at. Some nights, Rose and Miss Kershaw would be sat at the dinner table working, while he read his paper, keeping a watchful eye on Arthur. He would pinch himself at his reality, how he could never have dreamed of such an existence. It turned out that women, in all their forms and behaviours, the unknown entities or uncharted beings. Ones he didn't particularly seek or care for were quickly becoming the love of his life. Perhaps if his mother lived past childbirth, or Grimshaw's attempts at nurture weren't overruled by the male influences. Or if he found Beth and Mary-Beth before his infatuation with Arthur, he would have arrived in this place sooner. They were complex, they didn't need acts of great courage or constant reassurance. Expressions of love were not delivered in physical but more the mundane or small actions. Woe betide believing gallantry or hubris was the way to win a woman, those acts were scorned at. They were utterly different creatures but somehow, now surrounded and slightly caged in he could appreciate their demeanour and purpose.

John sometimes considered this was no accident, these women who treated him so cruelly and coldly over the years, didn't arrive at this place on their own. They were helped in some ways by the spirit of Arthur, although not dead, they could understand John's burden of loss, they somehow knew it was their role to support him through it.

"John." Rose called to him shakily. Father hadn't stuck, it was mainly Sir out of the house, but she gave him that much.

"Yes, Rose." He opened the door and was greeted with a disturbing scene. Rose's bedsheets had a blood patch on them and her nightdress. She looked at him perplexed; he was horrified.

"Did you hurt yourself." He questioned. She shook her head. "Did someone hurt you?" He bit his knuckles trying not to lose himself once again in the unthinkable.

"No one has touched me." She confirmed, having experienced where he goes when his mind gets carried away. They both thought it but refrained from saying it _I want Arthur_.

"We need to get you to the doctors!" He closed the door and instantly reopened it. "Get dressed, I will get Clara." Dashing across the farm, he shouted for her, his nerves getting the better of him. If he was in any way rational leaving Rose, he was a gibbering wreck by the time he disturbed Clara's breakfast.

"Rose is bleeding, need to get her to a doctor." He shouted. "I don't know what it is."

"Ok, well has she injured herself?" Clara sat bemused, cradling her cup of coffee. She was happy to have gotten to know the real John, not the legend of John, the tall-tales. The real John had a tendency to go off the boil slightly when faced with the unknown, it was sweet. This latest intrusion she met with stoic resolve, having previously joined him in his irrational descent only to find it was nothing to worry about. 

"Internally, maybe," He stopped, his eyes pleading, this was awkward, but he couldn't fathom why. The fear that someone had hurt Rose was raging to get out, give him a gun and he would shoot every man in a five-mile radius of the farm, that he could do.

"John Marston, you are a prized idiot." She laughed, got up and followed him over to the homestead. "We won't be needing a doctor." Clara went to Rose, closed the door behind them. He paced, terrified, trying to hear what was being said over the beating of his heart. The dam reinforced door made it impossible to listen. After twenty minutes, Clara remerged with the soiled sheet and bedclothes, taking them to the basin to wash.

"She's just got her monthly blood, John." She said calmly.

"Her monthly what?" John frowned, confused.

"Blood, John, all women experience it, Rose is a bit young, but then she has always been precocious." Clara created a good lava of soap and left the sheets to soak. "How do you not know about this?" She was scornful and laughing at the same time.

"What in my life has given you the impression that I know anything about women." John reasoned, whining his protest to such a revelation.

"Well, didn't anyone teach you about female anatomy." She reasoned back.

"Yes, but they clearly left that bit out." He was going to kill Arthur the next time he saw him, fancy teaching him how to be intimate with a woman and not mentioning once a month she bleeds. The horror, it was making him feel sick thinking about it. He collapsed to a chair and put his head in his hands.

"Some poor teacher you had." She scorned once again, this time with less intent.

"I think he was more focussed on getting my mind on women, that revelation would have pushed me to men quicker." John groaned he could see why that was omitted from his lessons with Arthur. He thought the female genitalia looked like a dead animal and that was before he knew blood came out of it.

"Now John, as much as I enjoy your complete naivety towards women, you are a father, and you need to teach Rose this is normal." He rolled his eyes to the request. So many boundaries he didn't even know he existed had been breached by the rational of _you are a father now_, how he longed to be told _when you are older_.

"Please can't you do it" He winced.

"No, and don't be thinking of getting Madeline involved, this is your responsibility." He despised how transparent he was to her, how Clara Anderson and Madeline Kershaw were in cahoots, reporting on his every mistake. He much preferred men, they were more simplistic creatures, always competitive and slightly easier to manipulate. The women in his life just ganged up on him.

Rose emerged from the bedroom, her cheeks flustered, and her eyes teary. John melted a little to her predicament, must be confusing finding out such a life-changing reality at eleven. All John could compare it to was when he started dreaming about Arthur, baffling, scary and something you really didn't want to talk about with anyone. Yet, not to talk, to conceal it and try to hide came with its own problems. He opened his arms to her, capturing her defeated body, she was slightly too big to pick-up now, not that he couldn't, presently, it felt wrong, trying to treat her as a child. She began to cry,

"I want Arthur" It was a solemn plea, not hurtful or laced with angst, just a reality. An acknowledgement that in life-changing and scary events, the calmness of Arthur was preferable to the inexperience of John.

"I want Arthur too." John conceded. He was definitely the missing segment of their whole, it was times like these when it was felt the most.

"You two are something else." Clara smiled.

Rose finally agreed to go to school, it was the best place for her; Madeline was there and could handle the situation better than he could. Although, explaining the predicament to Madeline was possibly one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. 

John returned to work, discovering the workers already informed of his faux-par.

"Boss, I will have to finish early today." One of the workers said.

"What for?" John asked innocently.

"My wife has her monthly blood." The cacophony of laughs made him shake his head.

"Very funny." They would probably dine out on this one for months. 

Once the labourers stopped mocking him and returned to their duties, John sought Clara out, expecting to find her still laughing.

"He's bankrupting us John" She threw her reading glasses across the table, frustrated and annoyed. John poured them a whiskey; it hadn't become a vice more a consolatory friend to the madness unfolding around then.

"He can't have spent it all? What about the money for the sale of the herd?" His calloused had pressed in his hip, trying to steady the sway.

Giorgio didn't take a new lover when John finally turned him away, that would have proven much more favourable. John's replacement was an outrageous love of alcohol and an even worse gambling habit. John blamed himself for Clara's torment, it appeared Arthur's arrival was the final straw for him and one that Giorgio could not overcome.

"It's all gone." Clara answered, defeated.

John yearned for the time when thinking about Arthur, was literally all he had to do. Where vast expanses of time and space were filled with dirty blonde hair, crystal blue eyes and a litany of scars to record and dreams of kissing. Now his thoughts of Arthur were generally cut short by more pressing issues, the current one being how to stop Giorgio driving them into destitution.

"What about his father, can he help?" John was aware that Edwin became slightly distant from his son. He used to visit every summer, yet they hadn't seen him in the past three, John put that down to his age and the distance of travel. It wasn't his business to ask about the family anymore.

"No, they fell out long ago" Clara confirmed

"He never said." In truth, John couldn't remember the last time he and Giorgio conversed, most of their interactions were arguments, most around the topic of their failed relationship. It was hard to have a conversation with someone who wasn't sober.

"Yes, well it was over you." John felt mildly protected, it was strange to think the man who tormented him significantly also protected him from unknown threats. He was sure that side of him existed, every now and again, a spark of compassion would glint and burn. With all things Giorgio, it was generally motivated by his ambivalence to others interfering. John was no more than a mere object to defend.

"I will get Rose settled tonight and then come over, and we can work out what to do." John said calmly, he owed her some stoic resolve after this morning's performance. She accepted a hug of reassurance and kiss on the forehead. Then he was off again, to perform another of his many ever-growing list of duties.

Arthur was always in the back of his mind; other priorities often came first before he allowed himself time to think of the man. Arthur was getting deeper into that life, and it wasn't clear that there would be any way out for him. There was talk that the Pinkertons were on the prowl, searching the familiar turfs and known associates. John still had hope, a vague belief that he could save him. It was too surreal to think their last meeting would be their last chance and rather than holding on to each other for dear life they let it escape through their grasps like grain through their fingers.

The reality was saving Arthur was his most considerable burden, the hardest problem to solve. And because of his remoteness, it was the easiest one to push to the back of his mind. That made him feel all the more guilty for doing so, he was conscious time was running out. The inflexibility of the lives around him meant mounting a rescue attempt was growing more implausible. Did Arthur know this too, could he sense the slow hand of time speeding up, would he come to him eventually, take the decision to join them. Stop John from worrying so much because he already had so too much to worry about.


	30. Reveloution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been my plan since John left with Giorgio all those chapter ago. I am sorry if you hate it but it is part of the story in my head and leads to some much needed events.

A tickle of air stirred him; the window slightly ajar to allow freshness into the room. It did nothing to alleviate the pounding headache from the consumption of whiskey the night before. It was becoming a problem, it was the only way he could escape from the incessant thinking, the constant evaluation of the situation. John groaned and jumped through his skin when something moaned back. With his blood pumping, he became acutely aware that he was not in his own bedroom. Squinting in the light-filled room, John began to recognise the floor plan; the furniture had changed, but it was definitely the main bedroom of the farmhouse. He cringed, deflated by the realisation he had given into temptation, unwillingly, without consent or maybe with, he was failing admirably to remember. Poor Clara, was she present when he submitted? Gave him and Giorgio the space to make fools of each other once again? How could he apologise to this poor woman that gave him everything and he, in turn, let her down every time?

He jumped again when the door of the farmhouse slammed. The shuffle of unhappy feet crossed through the hall and into the kitchen. She'd returned, not waiting for him to leave, was she going to scorn the pair of them or just pretend it hadn't happened or even worse embrace it as something beautiful. Not Clara, she wouldn't give in to such perceived propriety, especially toward their deviancy, not now. He taught her enough to make her understand that the rest of the world doesn't matter, it is those you love that should come first.

"Clara, get up. I want my breakfast." The drunken tones of Giorgio called from downstairs. John's eyes bulged with confusion as he peeled back the blankets.

"This is not the time to discuss it, you need to leave." Her face was a mixture of scorn and fear. She knew how to handle John, his leanings to the irrational when faced with something new meant commands were all he understood. Finding himself in bed with a woman is an experience he probably never banked on having.

"Go, John, now, before he finds us." Her voice was hoarse and rough, just like a man's. John didn't need to be told twice, well he did, but the second command permeated the fog of confusion in his mind. He intended on leaping out of bed but finding himself naked stopped.

"Really? You weren't that shy last night." His whole body turned red at the insinuation. How could she remember and he couldn't? How could she be so acerbic when he was nothing other than confused and mute. He did the best he could with what he had, stretching across the floor and using his big toe to hook his pants, all the time ensuring that every inch of him was covered. It was probably not the time to be bashful, a bit after the horse has bolted. Whatever paralytic John had done the night before, hungover John could not be so casual about it.

Sensing mild victory in the protection of his modesty and the retrieval of his pants, he turned to see that Clara was not overcome with the same sense of shyness. Having risen from the bed as naked as the day she was born, she floated effortlessly to the dresser.

"Jesus." He whispered, instantly turning away, it was too much skin and curves and softness.

"Would you be quiet he will hear you." She quietly shouted. Sensing he was quickly outstaying his welcome, he pulled on his pants, scooped up his clothes. Aiming for the window which she kindly opened for him, suggesting that was the way she intended him to leave. Thankfully, the main bedroom was above the porch of the house, he fluidly exited, landing stealthily on the tiled roof below. While horror and disgust permeated through every fibre, that was primal, it was who he was. He learnt enough over the years to know he couldn't let that affect his relationship with Clara. This couldn't become a thing that eats away at the core of their bond until there was nothing left. He turned and placed his head back through the window.

"Clara" he whispered. She turned almost escaping the room herself. "I am glad it was you." She threw a slipper in his direction and illuminated with her beguiling smile.

It was Sunday, which meant the workers started later after church. For the first time in his life, John was grateful for the ingrained institutionalisation of religion, it prevented his capture. No one was around to question his escape through the bedroom window, not moments after the husband of the house had returned. He managed to jump in one leap to the ground, swore slightly as his bones ached with the impact and gingerly ran back to his home.

"What have you done?" The sour face of Rose greeted him from the breakfast table.

"Nothing." He said like he was the petulant child caught skulking in after a night of debauchery. Then he thought about it and considered he was all those things. Her question, not where have you been? Or what have you been doing? Suggested she might already be on to him, too astute with her presumptions.

"Seriously, do you want us to lose our home?" She frowned at him, still adorable.

"We can't lose our home; we own the deeds." He batted back. Hoping that he concoction of what he had been up to was way off the mark.

"There are some things, even the remotest of neighbours cannot abide." She sat up, arms folded, this was coming whether he wanted it to or not, better to provoke and find out what she thought she knew.

"Like what?" He whined, infuriated that nothing was private in this house.

"Like sleeping with their wives." Her eyebrow raised in victory or suspicion he couldn't be sure. She was right, or possibly correct, Clara had been quite frank on the matter, but he couldn't assume or know fully. He suspected, he felt lighter, which meant he had left a part of himself behind, there has yet to be confirmation of where.

"Sometimes young lady, you are too mature for your own good." He ruffled her hair, trying to play down the enormity of what might have occurred. At least she was developed enough not think she was gaining a mother, that she knew him well enough to chalk it up as a mistake, another one made by her stupid father. "Grown-ups make mistakes, they are also better at hiding those mistakes, so don't worry yourself too much about it."

*****

He slept for most of the day and woke up feeling groggy, his confidence on the matter ebbed, discovering he was likely still drunk when he left the farmhouse which might explain his bravado towards Clara and his casualness during Rose's interrogation. Now his brain was fully engaged, he could wallow in the shame and the vulnerability the act now made him feel. The last person he could face was Clara, and Rose would not be much better. Leaving his bedroom in the gloominess of dusk, he found them both sat at his kitchen table, stony-faced and contemptible towards him.

"Rose, go to your room." He commanded with confidence, his body shaking with everything but.

"I think I should be involved in this conversation; it impacts me." She said bitterly.

"I think you are pushing your luck, madam." He still hadn't lost the knack of control, she was allowed most of it, most of the time but he still had a tone that could inform her where the line was and when she was crossing it. Slamming the reinforced door of her bedroom, he was grateful that he confirmed sound didn't permeate. This is not a conversation he wanted anyone's ears to hear, not even his own.

He took the chair opposite Clara needing the table to act as a barrier between them, he still had no recollection of the night, How? What? And why? It had happened, and who was the instigator? He was adamant those were questions he didn't want the answers to. Forgetting something that couldn't be remembered was simple without any provocation or insights to remember them with, he hoped Clara felt the same.

"So, I think we can both agree it was a mistake." She opened, pragmatic as ever.

"Agreed," John confirmed.

"And neither of us want Giorgio to know." She clasped her hands over the table, she was unsure of his position.

"Agreed," John repeated.

"Things will be a bit awkward between us for a while, but I am sure eventually we will laugh at the absurdity of it all." She tried to force a smile to conceal the solemn appearance of mortifying regret. It didn't fool John; he could sense the same expression on his own face.

"So, the best thing is to never discuss it." This time she nodded, and he replicated the nod. He expected to feel relief or some sort of happiness that they were on the same page. Yet, he sensed that as unfathomably out of character the forgotten events of the previous night were, he did have a duty of care towards Clara. He should be a man and inquire about certain aspects that may or may not make him appear unfavourable in her eyes.

"Um…do you remember much?" He asked cautiously, gulping with fear at the possible response.

"There is the odd image that appears to be burned into my memory, yes, but most of it was a blur." John nodded slightly, she remembered, which meant he would have to continue, chivalry was something that must be adhered to, even if it wasn't the night before.

"Was I…." He was interrupted.

"John, I don't think that is an appropriate question to ask." She barked, pre-empting his query.

"No…. not that, was I gentle, I didn't hurt you." His voice was soft with concern.

"Oh," she laughed. "Oh, sorry, yes, well yes you were…." She quivered, his eyes widened, she caught it not wanting him to think awful thoughts. "I mean it was a little rough but I actually…" She trailed off what was the point; if she told him she enjoyed being thrown around, it made her feel alive he would regret it even more as they both knew that was something he could not repeat, nor would want to. Clara was trying her hardest not to appear rejected, to be balanced and pragmatic, for John's sake, he didn't function well with confusion, so black and white. She could see the steam evaporating from his ears as his cogs whirled to catch up.

"Oh…" He finally responded she blushed sure he now understood her assessment of the evening's events. "I…You…I…what if Giorgio sees something?" Concerned he left visible marks that could be identified, he was very much a mark leaving lover. Poor Arthur looked like he'd been attacked by a wildcat last time he experienced John's love.

"John, Giorgio spends most days blind drunk, and if by some miracle he were sober, touching me seems to be the last thing he wants to do." She got up from her chair and pressed a hand on his shoulder. "We will be fine, John, there is no chance he will find out."

*****

The awkward phase lasted longer than John was expecting. He blamed himself, not being able to get over, not remembering, then grateful he couldn't remember. Bouncing between the two that it felt unfair to involve Clara in his turmoil, as though she was a bit part in the activities they shared together. It compelled him to avoid her for the first few weeks, ever the understanding soul, she gave him the space he needed. They were nearing the cusp of laughing about it, of returning to some semblance of their old selves. Then she withdrew, kept her distance, skirted around him every time they were close to speaking. It was like it happened again; he was sure it hadn't, but it was a similar feeling to what he first felt. He thought about confronting her, yet, she had been so patient with him. So he returned the favour no matter how awkward and alone he felt without her, he had faith that she would eventually come around.

It was a whole three months before what was happening finally caught up with John, murmurings amongst the men working didn't sink in straight away. Their wives, the maids, suspected the main house was about to receive a gift. One that was longed for, one that no one wanted to alert John to, fearful that it would cause further solitude for him when he realised that Giorgio, his lover, had finally gotten Clara pregnant.

"Get out here." Giorgio slurred, dragging Clara by the hair. The men, including John, ran to her aid, fearing his drunkenness could lead to violence.

"Which one was it, darling, come on, tell me." He hiccupped and stumbled. "There is no point in protecting them. I will work it out."

"What's going on?" John commanded the only one in a position to stop Giorgio.

"Well, John, I called for the doctor for my dear sick wife." He took a swig of the ever-present bottle that was no welded to his hand. "Only to find she is with child, imagine my surprise because I haven't touched the whore in months."

John's eyes blew for a moment, sought Clara's for confirmation. She was sobbing, collapsed with embarrassment, shame and fear. She couldn't look up, although she wanted to and plead with him not to say anything.

"Come on which one of you was it?" He bellowed, spitting as an accusatory finger glanced over each of the farmhands.

"Giorgio, this isn't right," John interjected.

"Stay out of this, John, it's got nothing to do with you." Giorgio barely shot him a glance. The wolf snapped into action; his cub needed protecting.

"It has everything to do with me." John stepped forward, knelt down and picked Clara up. Taking into the house to the audible gasps of everyone.

"You shouldn't have done that." She whispered through her sobs. He placed her down of the chez lounge in the parlour room and summoned one the maids to sit with her. Giorgio, followed, swaying, his putrid red face was boiling. He spat with venom, unable to deliver the words he wanted to speak through the twisted anger that controlled his mouth.

"YOU!" he shouted. "You were the worst mistake of my life."

"Feelings mutual." John was calm, mainly because he wasn't drunk, but also, he had Clara to protect and his unborn baby.

"What was the plan John stick a cuckoo in the nest and hope I didn't realise." He stumbled to the kitchen.

"I didn't know; how could I have known, baron womb Clara." John shouldn't have said it, but it needed saying, neither of them had thought this was a possibility.

"You have taken everything from me, my dignity, my home, my business, my wife and now you think to mock me because I am not man enough." That is not what John meant, the thought hadn't crossed his mind. He was awash with immense guilt that he had broken Giorgio. The man John once loved was a now a detestable homunculus that had no reason or presence or sense. But he was sure that Giorgio would have always been this way, it wasn't his fault that he hastened his demise somewhat by standing up to him. Giorgio was poisoned long-ago by someone that was not John.

"What do you want me to say?" John roared. "I took everything from you because it was there for the taking, if you treasured these things so much you should have taken better care of them." It was cruel but needed to be said.

"Oh, look at you, my killer, finally reveals himself after all these years, nothing but a common thief." Giorgio gulped the final dregs of the bottle. "I should have handed you in when I had the chance, claimed the reward."

"Perhaps you should have, but you didn't." John cocked an eyebrow, proactively, Giorgio was no threat to him in this state, he couldn't harm a fly. "Now I suggest you go and sober up and leave your wife to rest." He grabbed Giorgio by the shirt and guided him stumbling out of the farmhouse. Throwing him to the dirt and the feet of the labourers, who were still dumbfounded at the revelation. Their boss who valued discretion because he had a peculiar appetite that wasn't accepted by most had managed to impregnate a woman, the ranch owner’s wife no less.

"Get back to work," John ordered, he was in no mood for the salacious looks of shock and awe.

They began to move away, leaving Giorgio in the dirt where he belonged. A crack echoed around the farm, ricocheting across the valley and returning to their ears. In shock, few could process the scene. Turning they saw the acrid grey smoke rise from a small pistol in Giorgio's hand. John appeared unaffected, perhaps Giorgio's aim was off in more ways than one. John coughed, blood darkened his mouth and spilt out onto the porch floor, he wavered and then collapsed, all the colours turned to grey.


	31. Darkness

John didn't die straight away, by pure serendipity, the Doctor wasn't that far away, having only just seen to Mrs Anderson herself. He heard the shot and diligently turned his wagon around. Upon returning, he was greeted with a scene of mortifying chaos. The shooter, apparently Mr Anderson himself, fled by horse, some of the workers were considering pursuit, frontier justice, their wives screaming and pleading for them to stay. A body lay corpse-like on the porch, Mrs Anderson is no condition for such exertions was trying to stem the blood flow, he had a chance. She was the picture of civility and horror, blood smeared across her features as she attempted to control her angst and sorrow at the situation with her fundamental requirements for propriety. More disturbing still was a small child, blonde hair bedraggled across the chest of the victim, she lay at his side, trembling, not speaking or moving, sucking her thumb. The child was in shock, needed reassurance, this was a mess, but as the Doctor suspected it was one of their own creation.

Those drawn to the pursuit of medicine are not overly concerned with people's feelings. It may seem odd, how can your primary function be the preservation of life, when you fail to regard how that life is lived. The reality, in most scenario's, doctors, can try and save a life, motivated by their application of knowledge, the things they love most. The opportunity to implement their learning and monitor the outcome. Or they can provide a good death, one with minimised pain for the departing. The feelings or concerns of those around the patient cannot be the primary focus, it reduces seconds that could turn the outcome of life into the death. Doctor Renaud knew this better than most, having lived out west for most of his life, he had seen all manner of good and bad ends, indecision was usually the biggest killer.

"Gentleman, the law will take care of Mr Anderson, or fate, I need you to carry this man into the kitchen and place him on the table." The Doc commanded. "Mrs Anderson, I need towels and water, get your best maids on it. Then you must clean up and rest, no one benefits from seeing a woman in your condition in such a state." He followed John's body in and then thought to Rose, who hadn't moved with him. "Can someone help this child, she is in shock, sugared water should reinvigorate her, then she can rest with Mrs Anderson."

Once all were focussed on action, Dr Renaud was able to conduct the first proper examination of his patient. He cut the shirt off and found a small bullet hole, it was dangerously close to major organs, there was definitely internal bleeding. However, the blood was not black, which meant it was still pumping sufficiently oxygenated, the liver and kidneys not affected. The bullet would have to be removed and the source of the bleeding identified and quantised. All this was achievable, Dr Renaud had performed the procedure many times, it was generally the trauma of the operation and infections developed that caused the loss of life. This man had a long and hard fight In front of him if he wanted to live.

The bedroom was musty and rank, the sickly-sweet smell of decay and death. Three days had passed, Rose would not leave his side, perched on a comfy chair Clara had brought up from the parlour. When she did manage to rest her eyes, she cried, tears of uncontrolled emotion from her subconscious thought.

Clara and Madeline Kershaw alternated in the constant vigil, quiet and circumspect as they watched his chest rise and fall with rattled breaths. The bullet was removed successfully, but he had yet to regain consciousness. Clara begged the Doctor to stay, to be at hand if his condition worsened, but Dr Renaud was adamant that all that could be done had been done. He left her with instructions, the requirement and dosage of the medicine, the worst of all, morphine, to be administered if he showed signs of diminishing beyond repair. 

"It will be best for him not to suffer." He whispered to her on his departure. Clara hid the bottle, not wishing Rose to see. How can an act so kind as to limit someone's suffering, be so cruel to those who have to watch, as it takes their loved one from this world? Clara ensured the priest delivered last-rites, much to Rose's dismay.

"He doesn't believe in any of that clap-trap, he wouldn't want it." She pouted, using her body to cover John's

"Well I want it for him, I need to know he is safe." Clara injected, knowing she had no right. Yet, she couldn't allow the father of her unborn child to be stuck in purgatory or even worse Hell. They hadn't discussed the events that led to the shooting, Rose wasn't blind, Clara's stomach was clearly growing. Overcoming her shock at finding John dead, she was now incensed, _Adults can hide things_ he promised her. Once again, his naivety led them to a place of peril. If he woke up, she is sure she would kill him for making her feel this way. For leaving her alone, for going away and not having the sense or fortitude to come back. 

"I want Arthur" She sobbed into his cold arm, trying to block the world out.

"Oh darling, if I could contact him, you know I would." Clara ran her slender fingers through Rose's soft hair, physical comfort was all she could offer. Rose and John were delivered from such hardship, on the surface they appeared stoic with strong constitutions to all manner of adversities. That component of their personalities could only be achieved through the love and support they gave each other and their mutual adoration of Arthur, the invisible man. To lose one element was bearable, as long as that element still lived and confirmation could be sought through the papers. To eradicate an aspect, to lose John, well, that was not something that Clara could see Rose ever overcoming. It would be a sorrow, laced throughout her existence, one that would be short and unfulfilled. Rose and John were more akin than they could ever see, so black and white, no room for rationality. Rose would burn bright like a star dying, all her energy focussed on loss would be consumed so quickly. Never being who she could so easily be; if life hadn't delivered her such cruelties so early on. To replace it with hope and then to have that ripped away by one foolish act, she wasn't even a part of or had no say in, that was intolerable.

"I am sorry." Clara inelegantly sobbed and stumbled from the room. Madeline, followed, concerned for her friend's wellbeing. "It's all my fault, I was so stupid and selfish, and now a vulnerable little girl is going to lose her father." Madeline cooed and embraced her, trying to settle her without the use of words. What could she say that would remove any of the pain that she felt? This was Giorgio's doing, he hadn't returned, gone for good. Madeline was glad of that, he had been a cruel man to Clara, and she couldn't blame her for finding comfort in another man. It was a tale as old as time, to rid herself of the darkness a sacrifice had to be made to the light, that sacrifice was John. Now faced with that decision, unknowingly made, she propelled poor Rose into darkness, a determination if known surely would not be taken. If everyone knew the answers to life, we would surely choose not to live it.

"All is not lost, Clara." Madeline relented, she made a promise that she would never relevel, this superseded that promise it had to. "I know where Arthur is."

"What!" Clara instantly stopped sobbing and was overcome with indignation and confusion. She, herself, had never met the fabled Arthur who walked like a ghost alongside John and Rose, how did Madeline know him?

"It was a chance visit last year, he was torn whether to come and see them," Madeline spoke softly. "He said something about John's decision to make, anyway, he was concerned when I told him about Giorgio." Madeline drew Clara away from their vigil of John and went to the study. "He asked me to write to him with updates, he writes me back." She pulled from her bag the latest letter no older than a week. "They move around a lot, but he always writes to tell me where they are."

Clara snatched the letter and read it:

Dear Madeline,

We are camped outside Rhodes, sorry I haven't been in touch sooner, I received your last letter dated July 1898.

I am sorry you have to suffer John, I suspect I am as equally responsible for how he is.

Please write and tell me how they are.

Tacitus

"That's his pseudo name encase the law find any of our correspondence." Madeline thought to clarify.

"I can't believe all this time you have been able to contact him," Clara said sternly. "Didn't you think to let John know, alleviate some of his burdens."

"Arthur made me promise not to, that John had to contact him when he was ready." Madeline protested, assuming all along that keeping him informed was the right thing to do.

"He had no means of doing so." She shot a look of fury at her friend. "All of this could have been avoided,"

"Please don't be angry, think of the baby." Madeline tried to calm her, so much guilt lay thick in the air. Their actions or lack of could be poured over once this was all over, now keeping everyone alive and getting Arthur back had to be the priority.

"Write to him now, please, tell him last rites have been performed." Clara huffed. "I shall try to keep him alive long enough."

"Does anyone know a Madeline Kershaw," Charles shouted across the camp, having picked up the post in Rhodes. "It's addressed to Tacitus Kilgore so that could but any of us."

"Just open it, I am sure we will be able to deduce from the contents," Hosea said wisely.

"Alright, but if Arthur has a fancy woman on the go, he will kill us for invading his privacy," Charles responded.

"You clearly don't know Arthur." Mary-Beth chuckled; Charles was none the wiser of Arthur's predilections. She considered telling him when the grew close but as he said Arthur was a very private man. Charles opened the letter, scanning it, he was aware of John, heard tales of the fabled son and brother. He assumed it was speaking of him:

_Dear Tacitus,_

_I bring you grave news, John has been shot, the bullet removed, he is fighting a fever. _

_Last rites have been performed._

_Please come quickly; it might be your last chance to say goodbye._

_Madeline._

"Hosea, I am sorry," Charles said thoughtfully as he passed the letter to Hosea. Pulling Mary-Beth close for comfort, her sobs confirming it was John, the missing brother.

"Susan!" Hosea called. "It's John, we need to go." Susan dropped her washing and ran to Hosea. His name, John, all but vanished over the years from their lexicon. Her boy; lost to her by the arrogance of love and the naivety of youth.

"No!" she cried as read the letter. She was too pragmatic to allow the overwhelming burden of John's imminent demise to stop her from acting. If there was one last act of motherly duty to perform, it was to be there to bury him.

"How can we find him?" Her eyes darted to Charles and Hosea, trying to fathom how they would locate him

"Address is on the back, Big Valley." Charles and Hosea readied the wagon, it wasn't the quickest form of travel, but Susan was by no means competent in horse riding.

"It's a few days ride, are you sure you don't want me to come?" Charles asked.

"No, you stay here" Hosea pulled Susan up, placing her next to him. She could cry enough when they are out of camp.

"What do I tell Arthur?" Charles sought to clarify, he was unsure how close Arthur and John truly were as brothers. He heard enough to know that John left because of something Arthur did or something he may have done. It felt rude to pry into old feuds, one that clearly still hurt Arthur gravely.

"Tell him, tell him, to stay put, we will write when we get there," Hosea informed as he whipped the horses to move.


	32. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written this chapter 4 times now, there is so much to say and so many ways to say it and I hated each version. I don't much like this one, but I need the story to move on. Be brutal if you want to be, I feel it is a bit of an anti-climax. 
> 
> This will be a slight pause in my release dates, I need to re-motivate myself. We are getting near to the end, only 15 ish chapters to go and I want to make them really good.

The clock ticked quietly in the background, the man's face was close to his own, he could feel his breath tingle up his skin, it was uncomfortable. Arthur despised the closeness of strangers, undefined scruples, unclear motivations, not knowing what this man did when he wasn't shaving faces bothered him immensely. He could be a vicious killer, spreader of the pox amongst working girls, he might harbour a lust for children. It was irrational to think about such things, judgemental, there could be purity in the world, honest, decent people. It felt so long since Arthur had witnessed such people, the kindness of good Samaritan, the warmth and love of a virtuous soul. He gripped tightly on the chair as the razor swept over his jugular. How deserving it would be if the man with steady skilled hands, slipped, eradicated him from the world in a careless accident. It was not to be, he moved away, handed him a warm towel to remove the residue of foam. There was no kiss on the chin this time, no claiming of his scar by a careless lover, whose passion burnt so brightly he couldn't even show consideration to write a letter

Arthur caught sight of himself in the mirror, another hair cut that required him to be quaffed into a respectable gentleman. His clothes were uncomfortable, the most elegant cut from Paris. Even clean-shaven the hands of time were written across his face, he was getting old, too old to be called handsome. His skin, sallow and tinged with too much sun, his once striking eyes, blue as the calm ocean were now grey all the time. He considered the cruelty of old age, the aches and pains, realising what was once possible now ebbed away. He would never love again, that he was sure of, never know the joy of children, never see someone smile at him with lust-filled memory. A cough broke him from his mournful observations. Trelawny was investing a lot in this con, which made Arthur feel suitably nervous. He shifted uncomfortably; his eyes rolled at the ridiculousness of it all. It didn't go unnoticed, Trelawny for all his faults was astute at reading Arthur, possibly why Arthur couldn't claim to like the man. He was a slippery fella, but Dutch seemed to like him, then when was Dutch ever a good judge of character, he liked Micah after all.

"Arthur, don't be so jaded" Trelawny tried to reassure him. "We are all authors of our own good fortune."

"What could possibly go wrong." Arthur huffed in annoyance. He was worried, not that his acting was not up to the job, he could do southern oil tycoon well. Not having his guns to hand did offer a level of self-doubt, along with him having to rely on Trelawny, not something Arthur was comfortable with. He checked his pocket watch several times, it was becoming a nervous tick, the game started at 8 pm when the boat would be anchored in the estuary. He would join at 8:30, suitably late, fitting his character and allowing for the first nervous hands to be played. By that time, the players will have a sense and focus of each other, forgetting the tardy man named Callaghan.

The Grand Kerrigan was opulently luxurious, wood-panelled with velvet seats and plush carpet. Arthur spent an enjoyable few evenings of his life in luxury. Yet, he could never get used to its existence or imagining that every day could be filled in such lavished surroundings. Finding a perch at the bar, engaging with causal chats with the other patrons, getting into the role. He didn't stay with Trelawny, had no wish for them to be spotted together. Javier was somewhere on the ship, he walked on with them as a respectable gentleman, every time Arthur thought to scan the room for him, he rechecked his watch. He couldn't be responsible for giving the game away so early on.

His attempts at aloofness were short-lived, the hubbub of chatter became muted as people wandered to the tables. He was left with the burn of whiskey and the thunderous metronomic thud of the clock that sat behind the bar, almost deafening to the ship's lively patrons. The humid air, close against his skin made him seek breeze, Trelawny would not be happy if he ruined his tailored suit with his natural southern glow. The boat was far out in the estuary, its motor, shuddering to a stop as it drifted lightly across the wave. The salty brine of the sea tickled his taste buds, making him remember. The tumultuous night when he found himself, diving deep into the murky depths to save John. He wouldn't have needed rescuing if Arthur hadn't been so cruel. Wouldn't have been callous if John had been honest. Would have been honest if Arthur had ever encouraged such a trait in him. They were dishonest liars, vagabonds, criminals. Their love could never have survived with such irreconcilable differences, love and outlaws do not mix, never have and never will. Arthur suspected he knew that once when they were younger, knew it was a fool's game to fall in love, he fell all the same, into the murky depths, never to rise. To relive that night, to have John confess once again, to be so deeply scared that the only reassurance was to provide, heat and lust, to manipulate his body into ruthless orgasm. Memories of lust that is all he had left, a weak smile crossed his face, at least he had that. He finished his whiskey and headed for his mark; a Mr Desmond Blyth big in hosiery.

"Arthur Callaghan, apologies fellas I had some unfinished business at the bar." Arthur glanced around the dimly lit table, full of half-concealed faces from acrid cigar smoke, the smell of sweet whiskey tickled the palette. He clocked the man Desmond, waited for the bombast to engage him in meaningless chatter about oil and hosiery. Hosea always taught him to woo his mark, make him feel like the only man in the room, ignore the bit actors that played unknowingly to the sides. On this occasion, Hosea's methods were lacking.

"Mr Callaghan, how good to see you again." In the dimmed light, Arthur had to squint to see. Whoever it was they were either gravely mistaken having met him before, or they knew he wasn't Mr Callaghan.

"Mr Anderson, is that you?" Arthur said jovially, his voice cracking slightly. "Why how long has it been?" Every muscle in his body screamed to run. Giorgio, Giorgio, Giorgio, his smirk malevolent, his emerald eyes sharp and plotting. Yet, he was no longer beautiful, loving John Marston does tend to age a man, especially one without the fortitude to handle him properly. Giorgio's sun-kissed skin was tinged yellow, Arthur knew that well, his father had the same affliction, too much love of alcohol. His playing cards shook haphazardly in his hands, this was an intriguing development.

"Not long enough, how is your brother John?" Giorgio smiled spitefully.

"Why I was hoping you can tell me? He seems to prefer your company to mine." It sometimes surprised Arthur how in battle he would inflict wounds to himself, that was the truth of the matter. John chose this cold, unravelling soak over him. Giorgio, for all his faults and cruelness, was still preferable to a lifetime with Arthur. At least he got it out first.

"Now, Now Gentlemen, family reunions can commence after the game." The croupier commanded. They sat for hours, hand after hand, idle chat of hosiery, oil and farming. The whiskey flowed, Arthur was restrained, a con and an enemy sat at the table required temperance. Giorgio obviously didn't feel the same way, wavering, as he downed glass after glass.

Giorgio was out relatively early and skulked his way to the bar, muttering profanities. At least it gave Arthur space and time to focus on the real reason it was here. His mark Mr Blythe seemed to loosen a bit without Giorgio close by, he could respect the man for being a good judge in character. As for Giorgio and ultimately John it was too much water under the bridge, so many steps or missteps. John didn't write to him, at first, he convinced himself that John was just angry, stubborn, wanted to punish him. Then he decided that whatever it was they once had, it was dead. They would always love each other, forever fall into the natural rhythms of that love if they saw each other, but the time would never be right for either of them. The answer, therefore, was not to see each other again. Live their lives as separate entities, knowing their place would be in the stars.

Arthur, having won, expertly, author of his own good fortune, followed Javier and the manager to the safe. Collecting his winnings and everyone else's while he was at it. They chatted casually, the sun setting on in the distance coloured world with orange and gold. Arthur felt content, a weight lifting, maybe he was finally over John, his broken heart could live at peace knowing that the decision has been made, there cannot be any doubt. John chose Giorgio, the hideous oaf would live a shortened life with his alcohol problem then John would be free. Not to come back to him, he had enough dignity left to know he would never be second not to a man like Giorgio, but John would be free to raise Rose and live out his life as he saw fit. The only prize Arthur could find worth cherishing.

"Not so fast, Mr Morgan." Arthur heard the click of a cocked gun next to his ear, the dulcet and inebriated tones of Giorgio. "I want the contents of that safe."

"Have you lost your goddamn mind," Arthur shouted; the manager screamed which earned him a swift punch to the mouth. "Great now how we going to open the safe?"

"Come on, Arthur, don't be coy, John mentioned your safe-cracking skills, amongst other things."

Giorgio smiled provocatively, making Arthur blush.

"John?" Javier questioned.

"It's a long story." Arthur moved towards the safe, all his gear was back onshore, making cracking this an impossible task. "Try and wake him up, it will be quicker." The manager was knocked out, no sign of life, Giorgio placed his pistol against Arthur's head and ordered him to open the safe.

"You Mexican, get out, I don't want you in here." Giorgio barked.

"Javier, keep watch," Arthur ordered. He began to listen to the clicks; his ears attune blocking everything out. "This would be a lot easier without the gun at my head."

"No chance, I know you better than that." Giorgio snarled.

"Almost got it." The last click summoned the unbolting of the safe. Giorgio guided Arthur up and to the other side of the room before returning to the safe.

"Do you know I thought I would have to do this on my own." Giorgio sneered as he pulled out a bag for the loot. "How fortuitous, almost fated, that you were here to help me."

"You don't need to do this Giorgio!" Arthur growled. "You don't need the money."

"How do you know what I need." Giorgio cackled. "I am a wanted man, no better than you."

"Arthur! Company!" Javier shouted before escaping down the stairs.

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad." Arthur found himself reasoning, now the ticking sound was in his head, his heart. The money didn't matter, not being shot by Giorgio or the guards was his number one priority.

"Never see him coming, do you?" Giorgio threw the bag over his shoulder. "John bloody Marston." Giorgio ran for the door, Arthur in quick pursuit, a hail of bullets whooshed past them as they descended to the deck. He couldn't let him getaway.

"Arthur, leave him, we have to go," Javier shouted with one leg already over the boat. His hand reaching for Trelawny.

"Not without the money," Arthur growled with intensity.

"Come on Mr Morgan, you want to catch me!" Giorgio taunted. They traversed the boat, ducking and diving, alluding the guards who seemed none the wiser of who they were chasing.

"Where's John, Giorgio!" Arthur commanded; his large frame grew larger with angst. His blood pumping, boiling, this man's evil winding his gears. Arthur chased him across the portside passage, each step his rational brain switched to pure deadly focus. He turned into the dying embers of the setting sun, a chorus of cocked guns summoning his arrival. Giorgio cackled beyond them, out of reach.

"Oh Arthur, poor foolish Arthur." He said, standing proudly on the balcony above. The guards seemed hell-bent on letting him escape, Arthur was their man.

"I forgot to mention, John is dead" Giorgio's announced proudly. "I shot him, couldn't let him get away with disgracing me." Time slowed, Arthur's heart forgot to beat, his grey eyes drained, so pale they were almost white. His light, essence, his reason for being, was dead, taken by the one man he could proclaim to hate more than any other. Arthur impulsive, careless, pulled at the barrel of the nearest gun. Sending its holder flying towards him. He grabbed his body and pointed.

"Arthur, no!" Javier shouted one last time. "Revenge is a fool's game."

Deafness, darkness, the world was black. Arthur could see everything in the intricate slowing of time, he felt empty. In a hail of whizzing bullets, screaming patrons, blood spraying curated to the dance of his dying breaths, he could no longer provide sense or reason. Arthur tracked Giorgio across the ship, killing anyone who stood between him and his man. Arthur Morgan, once confused as rash and quick to anger, possessed all the restraint of an unwieldy bull who had spied the gelding tongue. Everyone had to die because John was dead, it was a massacre of biblical proportions. One the earnt him a few bullet wounds for his own troubles. Finally, when there was none armed left alive, he found his prize, Giorgio, cowering under a table. Sweat dripped from every pour, his body a furnace of utter destruction.

"We are going to a swim, boy, cool down." None of the patrons tried to intervene as he drew him back out to deck, they received the message that death is all that would come from intervention. It was clear, whatever Giorgio had done to incite such rage in the man Arthur Callaghan, he probably deserved his fate.

Arthur drove them both over the railings, into the murky depths of the estuary. The darkness didn't deny him the opportunity to watch Giorgio struggle and fight hopelessly for release. His emerald green eyes bulged with fear as the seconds ticked by, the final gulp, the one that drives water into the lungs, caused him to shudder and then stop. Giorgio was dead. Arthur released him and watched his lifeless body sink deeper into the gloom until there was nothing left to see.

He considered staying, a few more seconds, and he would swallow his life out of existence. Descended to the murky depths with Giorgio, spend eternity in Hell with him, never-ending cat and mouse game of torture and cruelty. Perhaps John was there, had he done enough to absolve himself of the sins of his youth. Could they replay this sordid, terrible mess over and over, for eternity? He considered it and then remembered, gold flowing locks and big blue eyes, Rose didn't deserve to be abandoned by both of them.

"I can see him." Trelawny directed Javier and the rowboat to Arthur's floating body. He coughed and spluttered as they both pulled him onto the boat.

"Are you alright?" Javier asked, spying bullet holes in Arthurs tailored suit

"I will live." Arthur spluttered, leant back and coughed some more.

"Who was that?" Javier inquired, careful not to provoke, Arthur still simmered beneath the hurt.

"That was John's...." He thought on what to call him, lover was not appropriate; it would seem, killer more apt.

"He still gets under your skin after all these years," Javier smiled, Trelawny too.

"Well, he is dead now." Arthur lay back on the boat and gazed up to the heavens.

"Not that Buffon, you idiot, I meant John." Javier chocked a laugh, as he gently rowed them back to shore.


	33. Human

The trek home was rough and unforgiving, Arthurs wounds were minor, the visible ones anyway. So many times, he dealt with heartbreak, the feeling that once again, he had given himself willingly and foolishly to a love that he couldn't keep. Once again, the sands of time cruelly shifted, leaving him with nothing but emptiness and longing. He suspected this time wouldn't be so violent, the loss felt so long ago, when he first thought John was dead was fuelled by passion and proximity. His failure that time was not delivering the nurture and care John required, treating him as a grown-up when he was still a lost little boy. The wrench this time was not the same. His blood lust sated, Giorgio dead, felt like redemption, the best he could hope for in the situation.

Javier probed and prodded gently, studied in the art of Arthur. His deep introspective silences borne from unfathomable thoughts, a lifetime of hurt feelings. He remained mute; Boadicea nickered from time to time, but nothing passed his lips. In the end, Javier decided whatever it was, the death of John's lover, the memory of John it would maul inside his brain until he reached a point of acceptance. The rest of them would be none the wiser of what it was about.

"Who goes there?" Charles commanded. His bulked frame appeared from the tree, carrying the guard's repeater.

"It's just Javier and me" Arthur grunted, forlorn. Jumping from Boadicea, he wasn't ready for the full onslaught of camp. Charles, introverted and circumspect was a welcome distraction to Arthur, had been since he joined. They were two peas in a pod, dark and brooding, sometimes the found something to snigger over but most of the time in was in-depth discussions around the complexities of life. Would he confess to Charles, tell him of his lover John and his lover Giorgio and the whole sorry state he now found himself in. Charles would listen, wouldn't judge and then offer such wise words Arthur would struggle to disagree.

"Arthur, Javier, it's good to see you both." Charles placed his hand on Boadicea. "Camp has been lively without you." He contemplated, Arthur seemed in shock, pale and dwarfed. Whatever their job was, it clearly took it out of him, was now the time to tell him off, John.

"We've only been gone three days how bad can it be." Arthur groaned, he couldn't be the packhorse, couldn't do the lifting, it was becoming tiresome.

"With Hosea and Susan leaving, the girls have been drinking more than doing their chores." Charles confessed.

"Gone? Gone where?" Arthurs felt the stirring pain of sickness, had they left for good, run away, had enough. The gang was testing these days, the once close nit family had expanded to the point that conflict was all they could muster with each other. Arthur's long absences, his desire to be away from it didn't help.

"To see John" Charles confirmed. "A letter came two days ago saying he had been shot, sounds bad."

"He's alive" Arthur drawled a little too excitedly.

"Last word, yes." Arthur fell to the grass below, ignoring the punch to his lungs as he landed on a tree root. His hands clasped around his face, hiding the forming tears, formed by the chance of hope.

"Arthur, are you ok?" Charles asked, perplexed by the dissolving of Arthur's usual stoic resolve.

"I thought he was dead." Arthur sat up chuckling. "I thought he was dead." He cried out in joy.

"You could have said!" Javier squalled still atop his mount. "You have been a miserable bastard since we got off that boat."

"Sorry, Arthur, I didn't think you and John were that close." Charles was contrite, instantly greeted with a chorus of laughter from the other two.

"He's alive, that calls for a celebration." Arthur pulled himself up, "You coming to Charles, I think a good night out is required."

"I am on duty until dawn." Charles said. He was cautious of Arthur's mood when it swung violently from morose to elation it usually meant trouble, especially those brave enough to drink with him.

"Javier?" Arthur drawled

"I wouldn't let you drink on your own" Javier relented, someone had to go with him. "let's get Sean and the others."

"Not Micah," Arthur commanded. "His face will turn the beer sour."

Sean, Lenny, Javier and Arthur walked into the parlour house, another bar that hadn't changed much, it still made his skin crawl. He was too enamoured by the news that John was alive to let to spoil his evening.

"What we celebrating?" Lenny asked cautiously, all too aware of the eyes fixed on him, time didn't heal some wounds.

"Life, Lenny, we are celebrating life." Arthur confidently proclaimed as he nodded to the barman, who promptly served them four beers. Lenny nodded, he always enjoyed Arthur and his boisterous persona. The lesser spotted fun Arthur last seen on a night out in Valentine where they both almost got arrested. Sean and Javier chuckled to themselves now both aware of the reason for such a good mood. The evening continued with tall-tales and stories of lost loves as was always the way, the beer turned to whiskey and tinkled ivories of the piano became louder and faster. A few working girls skirted by trying to gain a glance of interest. All were too committed to spending quality time with each other, it had been a long time since they acted like a family.

"How come you never married Arthur?" Lenny asked it caused an eruption of laughter from the other two, Arthur just smiled.

"Why no one would have me" Arthur tried to answer straight but he to was taken by the laughter.

"Plenty of people would have had you." Javier interjected.

"Yeah, they weren't equipped with the right material." Sean squawked

"Ignore them, kid, they are drunk." Arthur tried to reassure Lenny who was appropriate confused and little put out by the joke shared, always the new kid, never fully ingratiated into the gang.

"You know it's hard enough being around these parts without feeling like an outsider in my own gang." Lenny moaned.

"I have the same problem as you." Javier shot back. "Besides, it's not our secret to tell." He took a swipe at Sean who cheeky grin alluded to his own thoughts on the matter. He was too slow, the Irish man was out of his seat and next to Lenny in a swift if not uncoordinated motion.

"Nonsense, I have been sitting on this for years." Sean leant over to Lenny. "Arthur is a one-man type of guy." He whispered.

"Oh" Lenny's eyes were a little wild, there was always something about Arthur, it sat under his skin, brooding. Not that Lenny was one to judge another man's choices if it was indeed a choice. Lenny, a black man, sat in a converted home of slavers was not one to assume anything in life was a choice.

"To John" Javier lifted his bottle and the others joined in "To John."

"Shouldn't you go and see him" Lenny tried to rationalise the news. "He sounded in a bad way."

"That's not how this works, kid." Javier jested. "He goes running now then he might have to admit his feelings."

"Yeah," Sean piped up "They had a fight four years ago, and they are both too stubborn to forgive each other."

"I've forgiven him." Arthur interjected, "He just ain't forgiven me."

"Arthur, that is sad." Lenny started laughing too. "You haven't seen the only person you love in the world because you can't say sorry."

“I said sorry,” Arthur bellowed realising he had given the game away. “I wrote to him; he didn’t write back.” That hurt to admit, the letter never responded to, Giorgio chosen over him.

"Be honest, Arthur." Sean stood, wavered over to Arthur, slapping him on the shoulder. "It was John or me, and you couldn't bear not seeing my gorgeous face every morning."

"Enough" Arthur barked, he mistakenly thought a night out with the boys was what he needed. Clearly, none of them understood the deep complexities of his and Johns relationship, or they understood it too well.

"Mr Morgan, I thought I saw you come in here." The tailored blue suit and effeminate charm of Alden the station master greeted them. The boys started laughing again, Arthur tried to ignore them, Alden definitely had a soft spot for him, one he wilfully overlooked

"Hi Alden, what can I do for you?" Arthur stood up, acting as a barrier between the courteous man and his unruly gang mates.

"More what I can do for you." Alden clasped his hands in glee. "A telegram came for you, one I thought you might like straight away." He passed the paper to Arthur.

_John alive,_

_The fever broke before we arrived in Strawberry._

_Miss Kershaw informed our presence not required, returning home._

"Why Thank you, Alden, that is great news." Arthur slapped him on the shoulder, in a boisterous attempt to deflect Alden's adoring gaze. "This calls for another drink." Arthur handed the paper to Javier, the others gathered around and read.

"Why go all that way and not see him." A pertinent question from Lenny, who had yet to meet the fabled John.

"Same reason Arthur won't go" Javier responded. "John left under a storm cloud, his choice to leave, his choice to come back." Arthur returned with another round of whiskey and one for Alden.

"It hurt us all when he left." Arthur backed up Javier's telling of the tale. "Stupid really, but he has his own life now, probably live with people who don't even know he was once an outlaw." Arthur downed his whiskey. "You will learn this kid, if you stay on this track, you can't go running into others' lives uninvited, there are consequences." Lenny frowned; he was sure if his family back home needed him, he would return without question. "Confirmation that he was alive was all they needed. It is for John to decide if he wants to see us."

It was midnight by the time they stumbled back to their horses. Javier and Sean decided to have a little race back to camp, utterly ridiculous as neither could steer straight. Lenny and Arthur ambled, watching the uncoordinated specks disappear over the hill.

"Arthur," Lenny said. "You said if I stay in this life, you know I am with you guys for the long haul."

"It is what I feared." Arthur responded. "You are a good shot, kid, an asset to this gang, but there is so much more you could be doing with your life. You are too smart for this nonsense."

"Maybe." Lenny was quiet.

"Don't let anger direct your life." Arthur spoke up. "That's what I did and now look at me. I am old, run ragged, money is never enough, the one person I love doesn't love me, don't love my life or our family."

"Arthur from what little I have heard about John I can't believe he doesn't love you, or Hosea and Susan." Lenny tried to reassure.

"Yeah, well take my advice" Arthur scratched his head, sure he was arriving at the truth. "This path is the one where loving someone isn't enough." They returned back to camp, finding Sean and Javier drinking by the fire. The pair of them never quit until they were unconscious.

"Arthur!" Dutch boomed from his tent door. "Where have you been?"

"Out drinking with the boys." Arthur petulantly responded. He stood feet away not willing to close the space between them any further, to have the potential contact of skin on his. Dutch ever tactile was not the person he wanted comfort from

"Well, don't be getting any ideas about visiting John." Dutch said coolly. "I have already lost Hosea and Susan to that fool. Is it so hard to get some goddamn loyalty from this gang" Those words shot up his spine, loyal to what matters, John mattered, not Dutch.

"What if I did go and visit him." Arthur responded resentfully; it wasn't Dutch's place to tell him what to do anymore. He still tried from time to time, but it is a one-man dance, Arthur had left the floor many songs before.

"What like last time." Dutch was cruel. "Then he will break you all over again, I got to drag your sorry ass out of an opium den."

"I ain't like that no more, Dutch." Arthur drawled, a little less confident in his own assessment. He turned to hide his mocking smile, Dutch thought the last time he and John were together was the night John left the gang. Images of their reunion flashed in his mind, deciding the best place to remember was his cot.


	34. Together, when it all falls apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh No, what have I done.

Spring was barely blossoming, a hint sat in the air, the season of new life, of growth. It took him longer than expected to fully recover, a hard life lived with brutality, pushing his body to the edge of reason, littered with metal and fragments of anger. John could feel it, not always but on the sides, age, time, was aching nearer. So much happened in such a short space of time he wasn't prepared to piece most of it together, to make a coherent tale to tell himself. Now alone, in the main house, in the bedroom, he was free to call his own he couldn't decide if the last few months were a blessing or a curse.

"Come on now, John." Clara had said in frustration. "We have spent too much of our lives pleasing other people." She was right, they were finally free, the telegram arrived quite late, delayed by the several dumping of winter snow. 

_Dear Mrs Anderson,_

_I regret to inform you that your husband Giorgio Anderson has been lost at Sea,_

_No body was recovered. _

_We didn't locate any items of value in your Husbands quarters, but we will retain the possessions if you wish to receive them._

_Deepest Sympathies_

_The Grand Kerrigan_

He was gone. Neither reacted well to this information, not as two tortured souls should. It was more than the death of their tormenter, it was the end of a bond, something they shared and found comfort in. They saw out winter in the farm house. John attempting to do right by Clara always found himself lacking somehow, his affection not good enough, a reminder of their crime and the far-reaching consequences.

He could sense it, couldn't colour it or provide it with a name, but he knew none the less, when the time came he wasn't surprised.

"I finally have the one thing I have always wanted." She cried. "You have provided me with a precious gift, and I will never stop loving you for that." 

Rose hadn't really recovered from the shock of almost losing him. She had changed immeasurably. The once loud, scolding tones of her tantrums, her fiercely sharp intellect and cutting wit were now replaced with silence, pained mournful silence. He tried to remind her that he was alive, she hadn't experienced an actual loss, her mind was too far gone in the haze. The house, once grand and lavish in outstations furniture was now austere, smoothing the lives who inhabited it with darkness. Clara could see that, not the opportunity of freedom, to start again, the makings of an unconventional family. The higher risk that this home would become their tomb.

"You have Rose, she is your child, and you now have the farm, I have changed the deeds to your name," Clara said, placing the papers in front of him. "Please don't ask me to stay, trap me once again in love-lessness."

With all her rational arguments and emotion, she still managed to display tremendous cruelty. John did love her, dearly, it might not be the type of love a woman wished for from a man, but through a hard-existence, it is the type of love he would treasure most. To be secure and exist without fear, to rely and depend upon someone else, to trust implicitly. That was Clara's problem, having never received love when faced with it she didn't know what to do. She was running in fear, or dreaming, believing out there was someone to truly love both physically and emotionally. John remained mute throughout, perhaps he should have fought, provided evidence to the contrary. She had convinced him entirely; _we have spent too much of our lives pleasing other people._ John had spent too much of his life living without Arthur. He couldn't ask her to stay, couldn't keep her trapped with him, his unborn child would never grow up knowing his father but wasn't that a price worth paying, for the freedom to choose. What use was a father anyway, in his time, several men had claimed the title. None were present in his hour of need, dead, deserted or uncaring, that was his experience of fatherhood, his child was better off without him. 

She left, when the snow stopped falling and turned to slush, she hugged them goodbye and left to start her new life. It was a creeping silence that shrouded their despair. A ticking clock, the pendulum swinging pensively. Once gone, she was all he could think of, the selfish need to prove himself to her, to sacrifice everything to show himself worthy of caring for her. 

Arthur and Giorgio had influenced so much of his life, taken parts of him he didn't even know he was giving. Leaving him broken, a husk of a man who was incapable of expressing his actual wants.

When winter finally broke, leaving snowdrops and crocus along the ridges and fields, he made his mind up. Rose, his Rose, the beautiful child, the one who he ran to in his hour of need, the one he saved from a life of horror, her ruddy cheeks and piercing blue eyes, she was everything, all he could commit to. Arthur was gone, too many times, his focus shifting to the gang and away from him. Giorgio was dead, Clara deserted them, adults were not the answer, they were inconsiderate, uncaring, unreliable. 

Rose needed him, and he required Rose, and together they would live the life they both deserved.

"Come on, School!" he ordered, she said nothing.

"You can still hear even if you can't speak." He placed her boots next to her feet. "Who knows the other kids might have a chance to learn something with you being mute." Oh, the times that sort of line would have caused an impassioned argument, it barely got a blink of an eye. "Rose, I will carry you if I have to." She relented, small and frail, she shuffled on her boots. 

He was acutely aware that she was in the throes of an awful breakdown, her mind was closed and wasn't functioning, what could he do, life must be lived, Rose's world was school.

Dropping her off, he tried to provide words of encouragement, _kill those who needed killing, _still not appropriate. Still, it was all he had growing up. She was indifferent to his attempts, leaving him concerned to whether it was too soon. Madeline reassured him she would keep a watchful eye. Free from the burden of loving someone closed off to him, the consistant story of his life, he decided that with spring, he would make the necessary changes. Convert the tomb that Clara dreaded and turn it into a home befitting the Marston's.

He started in his bedroom, pulling out all the detritus left by Clara and Giorgio, clothes, suits, jewellery, he wanted it all gone. Every scrap that would remind him of them was to be irradicated, can't start again with the lingering reminder of ghosts. It was piled high in the centre of the room, a mass of fabric and metals, a miserable affair of propriety. The last box lay in the back of the cupboard, he had to reach on tiptoes to get it. He pulled at it until his hands could assess the weight. It felt empty, just a box, he threw it on the pile with the others. The rattling sound of it bouncing from the collection on the floor drew his attention. He was witness to everything else, why not this, one last item to detest and hate and despise.

He picked up the box and opened it. His knees weakened, collapsing to the bed, his precious gift from long ago, still mint and perfect. His thumb ran across the embossed casing, the indents a lifetime of memory. He wound it, its mechanisms a little rusty, too much water but it ticked, so familiar. He held it for a while, remembering, such moments of joy and pain he had shared with his Onyx watch. No explanation to how it found its way to the back of the Andersons cupboard. He tried to think of a time when Giorgio might have seen it, been aware of it, found it and repurchased it for him. His kind-hearted Giorgio, under the layers of malleus and hate, he always found ways to express love. Perhaps this was his last, a gift to reunite them, if given he was sure he would have forgiven him, that so precious, sold long ago to provide them with a better life. 

Tear's streamed down his face, Giorgio, he hadn't allowed himself to mourn properly, to accept his importance and his passing. Had he been spiteful, cruel, malicious, he could have saved them, could have provided him with the security to face his demons. Instead, he impregnated his wife, drove him to despair and almost murder and left him to drown. Poor Giorgio, his Giorgio, with the flex of mahogany in his brown curly hair, eyes of emerald green. He dreamed of the summer they first met, when their love was burning and alive, wishing that every summer since could have been blessed with such intensity.

John spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, the sun tracing across the sky, leaving beams of radiant beauty in the room they once shared. It should have been theirs always, if they were brave enough, not young and foolhardy, if they drew a line that couldn't be crossed by any other, they could have been happy, he dozed with the memories, sickly sweet and saddening 

A knock at the door tore him from his dreams, dishevelled and emotional he crept downstairs. Two gentlemen, stiff and grey with bowler hats stood side by side. John swayed casually, his sharp hips jagged and aloof, he sensed danger which made him relaxed. Some talents could never be forgotten, he was and would always be an outlaw in those respects.

"Mr Marston." The shorter man said, he was marked and red, had the appearance of a ferret, small squinting black eyes and a long slender nose. "Mr John Marston."

"Who wants to know?" John responded, his eyes burning like coals in the fire, he didn't move them from the first gentleman, even when he turned and stared at the other.

"We have been looking for you, Mr Marston, for a very long time." He smirked, evil exuded through every mannerism. "I am Agent Milton; this is Agent Ross of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency."

John didn't flinch, he kept himself firm and calm, he wished his gun was on his belt, not to shoot, just to intimidate. 

"My, my, my, you have alluded us, we have been searching for you since you left the Van Der Linde Gang." Agent Milton clapped his hands in glee. "You thought enough time had passed, that we had forgotten about you." 

He was brimming with spiteful joy. "Imagine our surprise when your name is mentioned in a bank in Blackwater, the proud owner of one Big Valley farm." John's heart was racing, beating in his ears, he didn't flinch. One act of kindness, Clara, buying her freedom by gifting him the farm had brought danger to his door. A threat he had never faced before, one he was uncertain of.

"We have got plans for you, Mr Marston." Ross chuckled

"Is that so?" John said. The door of their carriage swung open, a third man from the darkness pushed Rose forward, she yelped and sobbed.

"Let her go." John growled.

"Now, Now Mr Marston that is not how this works." Milton sneered. "We want Van Der Linde and those boys he runs with; you are going to help us, or we might cause some damage you can't repair."

"John." She squealed; the first words spoken in months almost broke him in two.

"Do you want to get shot." John roared, pushing Milton and Ross to the side, running towards Rose. The familiar click of a revolver stopped him dead in the dust.

"Play with us, Mr Marston, we will promise you will never see Rose again." Milton was stern, there was no bartering or pleading, not that John had degraded himself to that level.

"Get us Dutch, we will be waiting in the Heartlands, Emerald Ranch, bring him to us, and you can have Rose back." Ross scowled, as he brushed past him.

"What about Arthur?" he thought to ask, what about all of them, Hosea, Susan, Sean, Javier, Mary-Beth. He was the poison arrow, the one they wouldn't see coming. The prodigal son returned to break the gang.

"Oh yes, that deviant brother of yours." Milton coughed. "We must say, you two are enough to disgust the most perverse specimens, kept us very entertained reading of your shenanigans." 

Ross boarded the carriage, was greeted with kicks and punches from pale white limbs, she was fighting, she was strong again, self-preservation was kicking in; if Rose could find strength so could he.

"Get us Dutch, we might be willing to barter for Arthur." That was a lie, Arthur was as prized as Dutch. They could have Dutch, he would willingly offer him, but Arthur would be next on their list and then him. John wasn't naïve he knew how this game worked. The had all the cards, they had Rose, they would not win, not as long as there was blood pumping in his veins.

"At least let me say goodbye to my daughter." John commanded, little victories at this stage was all he could hope for.

"Fine, but no funny business." They practically threw Rose out of the carriage into his arms. He caught her weight mid-air, squeezing her tight as she cried. 

"Listen to me" John whispered through her sobs. "You stay alive, whatever you have to do, I will find you, I will come for you" He pulled her up to face him, ocean blues meeting coal, water and fire, elements essential for life. "Just hold on, for me." The arms of Ross began to tug at her, he managed to plant one final kiss on her brow, before her blue eyes were wrenched away from him. 


	35. Painful Reunions

"Wait a Goddamn minute." The voice was instantly recognisable if not a few octaves lower. A black mass appeared through the foliage, confidently walking with his hands in the air.

"I found this guy loitering in the bushes outside the camp." Charles boomed, gun pointed and cocked ready to shoot.

"John!" Mary-Beth squealed.

"Hi, Mary-Beth." He opened his arms wide, almost falling backwards with the force of her hug. "You have grown." He chuckled, she was still fair-haired, curls and sweetness, the smell of autumn rain. Charles looked on bemused, he can't remember Mary-Beth being that excited to welcome him back.

"What are you doing here, John?" Hosea said hesitantly, his voice cracked with emotion, it was good to see him, alive and well. He inched closer, was slower more reserved in his movements, age was catching up with the old man fast.

"When a man almost dies, it puts a few things in perspective." John laughs, shaking hands with Javier and Sean. His two old comrades, neither changed much over the years, John had, he was stronger, thicker, muscle and brawn "Missed my family."

"You have a family, John; you should be with them." Hosea was cautious, Arthur and Dutch were not here to witness his return, how would they explain it? He and Susan agreed to keep tight-lipped about the revelations of their visit. A brief meeting with the school teacher Miss Kershaw revealed some unsavoury goings-on with the farmer's wife, John's former lover, a baby on the way, and another child of unknown origins, John had been busy while he was away. It was unclear how much Arthur knew; if knowing would break him. He was a loving soul deep down; he would love John until he died. It's hard for someone like Arthur to witness the other half moving on, settling down, there was too much risk involved, too many past indiscretions that confirmed the less Arthur knew, the better.

"How do you know about my family?" John responded casually, hugging the old man. He thought maybe Arthur had spoken of Rose, of him and Rose, perhaps he was more open, less inclined to withhold the truth,

"The wind, John." Always the goddamn wind, a family of card players if there ever was one.

"Well, now I don't have a gun pointed at me." He nodded his head belligerently towards Charles, who tutted his disapproval. "I think we should have a drink to celebrate my return."

"It's great to have you back John but, Dutch, Arthur." Hosea trembled slightly at the thought of the reunion.

"I ain't been away that long, I can still handle those pair." John found himself a beer. Hosea admired his confidence it had been so long since the cocky arrogance of John Marston provided entertainment to the camp. He began to regale them with his tales of adventure, most were made up, John had actually lived a reasonably quiet life since leaving the gang, give or take a few hiccups. He wasn't about to reveal, everything, unsure what Arthur had told them, what they knew of him, well the obvious was obvious but rest he would wait for them to ask rather than explicitly revealing. Dutch was the first back, atop of the count, still going strong. He was followed by a shorter older man, who's natural sneer was positively revolting.

"John!" Dutch croaked, he was witnessing an aberration.

"Dutch, how are you?" John confidently took his hand and shook it. So, what, if the last time they saw each other Dutch was sheathed in the man he loved. Dutch didn't know that Arthur only did that to abuse himself, to sicken himself to the point he could take his own life, John did. While the thought made his skin crawl for the first time in their existence, John felt he had power over Dutch. Besides, happy families are what was needed if he was going to save Rose.

"What are you doing here?" Dutch was quizzical

"I am convalescing, went and got myself shot." John pulled at his shirt, revealing the new scar, sat close to the old one. "Was passing through when I heard rumours the gang was camping nearby, felt rude not to stop in and say hello." John patted him on the back, which got a glance of disgust. "Still no better at laying low." He chuckled to himself.

"Well, it's nice to see you, son." Dutch grabbed his hand and slapped his back hard, the pretence was required for the rest of the gang, for all they knew John was his loving prodigal son, returned. They still eyed each other suspiciously, that old look of doubt, burning coals "Let's drink to this great reunion."

Arthur and Susan were in town, collecting goods for Pearson, it had been a while since they could move so freely, seemingly out of sights of the Pinkertons, finally.

"That the last of it." He groaned, placing the last box on the cart.

"Yes, Thank you, Arthur." Susan accepted his hand up onto the wagon.

"You alright, old girl, you not been yourself since you returned." Arthur stared at her, she appeared worn-out, a distant look in her eyes, something was bothering her. 

"I am alright Arthur, less of the old." She sighed, "I don't know, just wished we went to see him."

"I understand why you didn't." he whipped the horses. "Old wounds."

"Oh, Arthur, not everyone holds on to the past like you do." She chastised

"What's that supposed to mean?" He pleaded ignorance to her assessment. She knew him better than most, knew the other side of him, the one he liked to keep hidden and private.

"It means old wounds had nothing to do with it." She huffed, "I didn't want him to be embarrassed by us, shamed that he was raised by a bunch of outlaws."

"Well, that sounds more ridiculous than holding on to the past" He drawled his southern accent. "Denying it all together."

Arthur drove the horses carefully out of Rhodes, this little bolthole served them well over the years. Close to St-Denis, Valentine, no one ever came looking for them down here. It wasn't all bad, the locals could be a bit strange, but most of the gang enjoyed the warm weather. Lenny, Charles and Javier got most of the angst, they travelled together for safety. 

"There is something I haven't told you." She shuddered a pained breath. "Wanted to get you on your own."

"Sounds ominous." He responded, keeping loose, his shoulder wanted to stiffen, any revelations, especially around John, usually came with a degree of hurt and pain he didn't wish to receive no more. "Go On"

"The reason he got shot." She composed herself ready. "He managed to get the farmer's wife pregnant."

"You serious!" He caterwauled, gesticulating his hands in protest.

"Yes, Arthur why would I make something like that up." She growled, annoyed at his reaction. In truth, frustrated non-believing Arthur was more comfortable to work with than morose heartbroken Arthur.

"No offence, Susan, but he ain't that way inclined" He pleaded his case, knowing John far more intimately than anyone else, he couldn't just switch allegiances so easily.

"People change Arthur." She calmly delivered

"Mmmm, in my experience, they don't tend to on those matters." He matched her temperament

"This coming from a man who fathered a child." Her eyebrows crawled up her wrinkled brow, unclear of how this was any different to Arthur's own troubles, other than Arthur was sensible enough to not impregnate a married woman, just a young girl. "You boys will be the death of me."

"Yeah, I might enjoy both sides but not John." He chuckled, such a conversation to have. "When you say the farmer, the man John works for." His slow mind finally began to connect the dots.

"Yes," She confirmed, "Scandalous isn't it, raised you boys better than that."

"Don't be putting us together now, John's his own man, big enough and ugly enough to make his own mistakes." Arthur paused for a moment, Giorgio, he was so angry, it was now clear why. _Never see him coming_. That was a statement and a half, what a mess, fancy after all these years John falls for a woman and it happened to be his lover's wife. The less Susan knows, the better, Javier was a bit loose-lipped when they got back to camp, telling everyone of the tremendous battle Arthur had with the stowaway thief. He left out the part about John's lover being the thief. It didn't matter, his rage-filled antics were in the papers for about a week, he left the boat in chaos, and now they were meant to be lying low again.

"So, John's going to be a father," Arthur smirked, it should have broken him, made his heart bleed, but he finally felt ready to let go. John had his new life, fatherhood, the greatest gift a man can receive. It would be wrong of Arthur to ever intrude on that. They enjoyed the rest of the journey in silence, the odd passer-by greeted them a hello. It could be civil, Lemoyne, if it tried. The leaves rustled in the breeze as they neared the camp, a timbre of raucous laughter broke the silence.

"We are out of camp for five minutes, and they are drunk again!" Susan moaned as they pulled into camp. The boisterous laughter permeating from the campfire.

"Yeah, go give them that firm hand of yours." Arthur chuckled unbridling the horses. A scream of excitement came from the fire, _bunch of clowns_, he grumbled to himself. He set the horses free to graze and approached the party, his advances were cut short by a familiar presence.

"Marston! What the hell." He growled the sight of him, black mop, doe eyes, stupid sharp swagger.

"Mr Morgan, it is good to see you." His licked a cocky grin, bloody Marston.

*****

"Do you think we should break it up," Charles asked pensively.

"I once tried to intervene in one of their fights," Javier responded, strumming strings on his guitar. "John ended up going off a cliff edge, Arthur broke his ribs, trying to stop him." 

"They will stop, eventually, got five years of pent up anger to work through." Hosea offered words of wisdom, lost in his paper, enjoying the familiar sounds of those pair scrapping.

"I bet you $10 Arthur wins." Sean clapped his hands greedily. His eyes watching every punch and kick as they rolled in the dust.

"I don't know." Javier studied the pair. "Arthur is slower than he used to be, John has definitely bulked out."

"Dutch!" Susan admonished. "Would you stop them before they kill each other."

"What do you want me to do, I have enough scars from when they were kids." He shot back, nursing a glass of whiskey and his cigar. "I am an old man in comparison."

"This needs to stop," Charles commanded, pacing restlessly, violence in camp filled him with foreboding.

"On your own head." Javier chuckled, "The only thing that annoys them more than each other is when someone tries to get in their way,"

"I thought they _loved_ each other," Lenny whispered to Mary-Beth.

"They do" She giggled "It's just they don't know how to express it like normal people."

"Get off me" John screamed, as Arthur lifted him on to his shoulder.

"Oh, the classic Morgan finisher, just liked old times." Sean shrieked, running to keep pace with Arthurs purposeful march.

"What?" Charles was beyond bemused by all of it. Arthur seemed a quiet, tamed gentleman in camp. He could be a vicious, ruthless killer when he needed to be, but that wasn't the real Arthur. Charles had never seen him behave this way.

"John can't swim, Arthur dumps him in the water, cools him down," Javier explained. "It's not my turn to fish him out."

"How do you remember whose turn it is." Sean squawked, jumping with excitement.

"Surely, Arthur won't leave him to drown," Lenny said, utterly confused.

"When Arthur's angry with John" Javier replied. "He could kill."

A loud splash sated the excitement, Arthur stood at the end of the pier waiting for the thrashing and flailing of a drowning John, begging, he wasn't sure he would save him this time. The rest kept their distance, it was only if Arthur turned away would one of them have to intervene, this was still their fight. Seconds ticked by, John hadn't remerged, Arthur's loose hips swayed, his arms folded. The others looked at each other worried, had it finally happened, Arthur killed John. Arthur glanced behind him, concern etched on his face, why hadn't he come back up. It wasn't that deep, what if he hit his head, he was drowning. Arthur was about to leap in when John emerged, a good few lengths of the jetty.

"You can swim!" he shouted angrily.

"Yeah, I can swim." John responded cockily, "Thought it was a skill worth having."

"You, selfish son of a…. couldn't be bothered when I was around saving you," Arthur yelled, annoyed that once again, John seemed to learn without him.

"Maybe I found a more patient teacher." John paddled confidently back to shore. "One who didn't threaten to kill me."

"Well, why don't you go back to him." The venom fell from his voice, couldn't go back even if he wanted. The re-emergence of John in their lives was too timely to be a coincidence, was he lost without Giorgio, heartbroken. Arthur, through setting him free, still managed to ruin his life. "You ain't welcome here." He huffed, trying to maintain his aggression, while guilt coursed through his veins.

"He's dead," John responded, pulling himself onto the jetty, next to his outlaw.

"Well, I am sorry to hear that." Arthur was pensive, at least John was honest, unlike him. "There ain't nothing for you here, boy."

"There's you." John tried to reach forward, to touch him. Arthur pulled away; painfully aware an audience of onlookers had their eyes firmly fixed on them. It didn't matter that they knew the truth, what John and Arthur were, together. Knowing and witnessing were two very distinct lines, one of which Arthur was unwilling to cross. Arthur wanted to scream and shout, tell him he was a fool. Running from his responsibilities, like a coward. If there was a baby, then that is all there was. Any notions of them died the moment John sired a child, he should be with the mother, with Rose, not chasing ghosts of lover's past.

"Go home, John." Arthur bellowed pushing him, another crash of water as he landed back in the pond.

Micah sneered, creeping next to Dutch, the sound of Arthur Morgan commanding the boy away was music to his ears. With Arthur distracted by his presence, Micah would finally have Dutch's ear, could start exacting his plans and finally get away from these bunch of losers.

"We could always use the gun, Dutch." Micah offered. "If Arthur trained him, I am sure he is a damn good one."

"I am aware, just can't bear the fighting," Dutch said. "If Arthur wants him gone, he should go."

"Come on Dutch, when did Arthur make the decisions for this gang." Micah leered, "If you say he can stay, Arthur will follow orders."


	36. When the wind blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, look at this awesome art WriterInTheFog created, we have Rose, Jezebel and out two favourite cowboys. Sorry I don't know how to hyperlink but check it out, very humbled someone took the time to create art based off my story, amazing compliment. 
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/B8--641l28A/?igshid=o0wwwt6n2ugq  
https://www.instagram.com/p/B8_ArGBlg7P/?igshid=1aj1z27c5c892
> 
> This is chapter 36, its pretty much full on heart-breaking rollercoaster from now on.

What could Arthur do, everyone was so happy to see him, patting him on the back, making him welcome. John didn't help matters, the lazy shit who used to swerve chores suddenly the most helpful and accommodating man. If John wasn't cooking, he was cleaning or mending broken furniture, fixing horseshoes, laying out hay. When did Marston become such a grafter, so considerate and thoughtful? Arthur couldn't bear it, the camp workhorse was his job, not John's. He had no right to walk into his life after all this time. Pretending he was useful, acting like he wasn't wholly dependent on him, pretending that he can goddamn swim.

"He has got to go, Dutch!" Arthur furiously paced in his leaders' tent.

"Arthur, do you think I shouldn't trust him?" Dutch was provocative; Arthur would protect John no matter what.

"No!" Arthur crowed. "I am not saying that he has a family Dutch, a wife and a kid on the way, he is running from his responsibilities."

"He hasn't mentioned any of it, Arthur!" Dutch was getting frustrated, every morning for the past week Arthur was in his tent trying to convince him John had to go. He had not affections towards the boy, not really. Still, he was proving useful, reliable, a damn sight more than Arthur was these days. "And if he is running, so what, I remember you doing exactly the same, we didn't stop you then, why should we stop him now."

Arthur left infuriated, he couldn't face the choices he made, the mistakes. They were choices afforded to him by his loving family, the gang. He chose to abandon Eliza and Isaac, just as John wants to be with the gang. Let the chips fall where they may, regret is a part of living, his oldest Son never understood, but Dutch had plans for the youngest, he was ready to be brought back into the fold.

"Morgan still got his knickers in a twist." Micah said lurching in with a cup of coffee.

"Don't push him, Micah, you forget how dangerous he can be when he is on edge," Dutch warned.

"Dutch, when you going to realise, he casts a large shadow for a tiny tree." Micah chuckled to himself. "I have got a few jobs lined up, thought I would take out the new boy, test him, see if he breaks."

"Ok, but Arthur goes too, from what I can remember of John he can be both brilliant and reckless, Arthur keeps him balanced." Dutch returned to his morning cigar, longing for the days he could accomplish his morning routine uninterrupted.

"You sure about that boss, they aren't exactly the best of friends." Dutch scowled intensely at Micah's questioning.

"I raised them to put the gang first, duty, loyalty over everything." Micah held up his hands in acceptance, he was quickly outstaying his welcome, _loyalty to what_ he whispered under his breath.

*****

"Where the hell are we going!" Arthur groaned from the back; he detested the jobs where the minimum of information was supplied.

"I told you Morgan be patient." Micah called from the front, John and Javier sat quietly between the two. John was pleased not to be the most hated man in Arthur's company. They hadn't spoken since the fight, a whole week of avoiding each other. John tried, subtly, to catch his gaze, a moment of closeness. Arthur would walk at pace in a different direction sensing him lingering. Even around the campfire at night, if John was there, Arthur wasn't, if Arthur was there and John joined them, he would leave. John couldn't understand what the problem was, what made him so angry, other than abandoning Rose. Arthur abandoned Rose too, he didn't come back, left them to it. John was just as upset deep down, yet it was always Arthur that got to dictate, Arthur that got to play the injured party.

He tried to invoke some sort of reaction, memories from their past, the gang, was happy to accommodate his forced discussions. Arthur wasn't he would stomp around the place, a bear with a sore head, always his most dangerous. John even tried to remind him of the watch, a gift once given to encapsulate their love and loyalty to each other. Hosea was impressed, couldn't believe John hadn't lost it, John thought not to mention selling it, what Arthur didn't know wouldn't hurt him. They all reminisced about it, the importance of it. Arthur just shot him his death stare, an image of the ice-cold hell they now found themselves in.

John could sense Arthur was anxious, he never changed, the less information he knew, the worse his nerves would become. Arthur was a planner, organiser, methodical and brilliant in his execution. Everyone else was a bit more relaxed, which put Arthur on edge.

"Stage Coach, full of bonds from the bank, comes around these parts every day." Micah said from his perch.

"Guards." Arthur interrogated.

"Two, nothing major." He huffed, it was never two, always more.

"How do you know about this?" Arthur drawled, he was digging, as usual, identifying the problems, the risks.

"The O'Driscolls keep hitting it, they are on to a good thing," Micah said proudly, his sources had yet to let him down.

"I don't know." Arthur was reluctant, keep dipping your wick in the same hole, and someone usually gets wise to it. "Don't you think they might have smartened up. Got themselves more guards."

"Come on Arthur, when did a stagecoach ever frighten you." John piped up, trying to appear more accommodating than his older brother, he needed to build trust, quickly, Rose need to be saved.

"Excuse me!" Arthur bellowed "When I need advice from a part-time outlaw, I will find someone more qualified than you."

"I'm in," John said cockily, ignoring Arthur's assessment of his capabilities, never lost it, outlaw until the end.

"Of Course, you are, you wouldn't know danger if it bit you on the ass," Arthur grumbled. "Don't think just because I am here, I am going to be stepping in and saving you when you get into trouble if you can learn to swim you can keep yourself alive," John smirked. Of all the things they have done to each other over the years, the hurt, the pain, who would have thought acquiring a skill such as swimming would be the most heart breaking. It gave John hope, it meant Arthur still cared, it bothered him that he wasn't the one that taught him, his job.

"Please guys enough of the fighting, lets just get this done." Javier was shot, he'd forgotten how annoying the pair could be.

Once again, an uncoordinated, unplanned and utterly, utterly, useless debacle unfolded. The stagecoach was easy enough, it stopped once everyone had been shot. No one thought to check the O'Driscolls weren't still tapping the same well, they were. An army of them arrived assuming, as Arthur had, that the bank would have reinforced its cargo with a few extra guns, they hadn't. 

It was an onslaught of bullets and charging men, even Micah appeared concerned, this time they had bitten off more than they can chew, even with four of them. Arthur barked his orders loud and clear, hollering the positions of the different men as they approached. Everyone managed to follow except Marston, who managed to get himself cut off from the group and surrounded.

"I am getting too old for these games." He grumbled in pursuit of John's pursuers. They cornered him in the river, the current too strong and his stoke to weak couldn't stop him being dragged away by the torrent. Arthur shot the remaining O'Driscolls, with ease, smirking, the only good O'Driscoll is a dead O'Driscoll. His muscle memory fought his brain, and he reluctantly jumped in after John.

"I am coming you goddamn idiot." He shouted, assessing his minimal options. The thunderous crashing of the water made it hard to hear. Micah and Javier stalked them along the riverbank, trying to point to John's directions. Javier had his rope poised and ready in case either of them got close enough to reach. Arthur slipped down the first drop, hitting onto the rapids, the jolted him violently around, he screamed for John, it would be so apt if he managed to drown himself. The force of the water pushed him under, his body trembled with fear, this was serious. If Arthur was struggling, John would be drowning.

"John!" He screamed to the top of his lungs.

"I am over here." His wrecked voice called. Arthur pushed hard against the force of the crashing water to reach John, who managed to hold on to a boulder, protecting him from the tumult of liquid.

"You ok." Arthur asked, not concerned, just checking there were no injuries.

"Yeah." John coughed, spitting water from his lungs. "Just taking a rest."

"Its different ain't it, not the calm lakes you are used to." Arthur chuckled.

"Ha, ha, very funny." John was used to never being good enough, learnt to swim, just not good enough. "Just go, Arthur, I don't need saving."

"John!" Arthur was torn, this is how it starts, saving John, forgiving John, loving John, losing John. What was one more time around really going to cost him? "Just put your arms around me, there are more rapids up ahead worse than these." 

"It's ok, Arthur, you don't want me weighing you down." Arthur considered it, leaving him, how else was he going to learn, hard way to learn, getting yourself killed.

"What will I tell Rose," Rational, reasonable blackmail. "Her daddy was too pig-headed and stubborn to ask for help, so I let him drown."

"She would probably be glad I was dead." Arthur paused for a moment, not the response he was expecting. The difficulty of not talking is other than what he knew, he didn't know much more beyond that, the statement made it clear that Rose wasn't thrilled with him. Is that why John ran couldn't cope with a child's contempt. Arthur faced that scowl every day when John was her age, never good enough, what made John think he could walk away from it. Arthur could guess what caused it, and he was wholly on Rose's side, poor girl, having John as a father would test the patience of a saint.

"At lot like you in that respect." John shouted over the water. He was remorseful which made Arthur's blood boil slightly, he didn't want John dead, just far enough away, so he didn't have to think about him.

"Do you want to die, is that it, came back to get yourself killed." He crowed.

"No." John yielded, his hands becoming slippery and his body tired from holding on. Arthur read it, turned his back to him so he could hold on to his neck. The rapids were worse, they jostled and tore at them, their heads going under several times. Gasping for air, each time they came back up. Arthur sight became blurred, the pressure of John around his neck making it hard to breathe. Much longer and they were going to be in serious trouble,

"John! We got to get to the side," Arthur pointed to a beached stretch ahead, the pulled and pushed together trying to aim for it, enough so the current would flow them into it. The feeling of the ground under them was elation, they coughed and spluttered and rolled until they were safe. Arthur pulled John in, half collapsing on his from breathlessness.

"I thought you weren't going to save me." John gulped a big breath of air, Arthur crushing him was not helping

"Don't start, Marston." Arthur tried to roll off, to give them space to breathe, he was stopped by John's thighs gripping him tightly.

"Thanks, Arthur." He said pushing their lips together. Arthur couldn't stop himself even if he wanted, no fool like an old fool. John masterfully took control, weaving his tongue in without permission. Arthur was too exhausted to fight him, those lips, moist and warm had been absent for too long.

"Well, Well, Well, sorry to break up the reunion, love birds." Micah's sneering voice brought them straight back down to earth. Arthur quickly rolled from John, not facing Micah, he was too embarrassed. "It all finally makes sense."

"Sorry, Arthur." Javier called from the wagon, he should have guessed they might need a moment, he was more concerned with saving their lives.

"Arthur Morgan, King of the fairies and with his own brother no less." Micah's cruel laugh snapped Arthur into shape. He drew his gun, flying for the runt, tackling him and pinning him to the ground.

"What I am is none of your goddamn business." His eyes rolled grey. "I hear you breathe one word of this and I will snap that neck of yours and parade your head around on a spike so the whole world can see what a treacherous snivelling shit you really are."

"Arthur." John called to him, scared of the reaction he was having to this man, Micah, Arthur losing control was not what any of them needed right now. Not if they were going to war with the Pinkertons.

"You wouldn't dare, all talk and a crooked walk." Micah raised his eyebrows provocatively blew Arthur a kiss. Arthur brought the butt of his gun down on Micah's head, knocking him out cold.

"Arthur, Dutch ain't going to be happy about this." Javier grabbed Micah's left arm, Arthur the right.

"Since when has Dutch's happiness been high on my agenda." They threw Micah in the back.

"All the time I have known you." John really should have been quiet, but he was hurting too. The kiss so passionate, lost in themselves once again. Arthur was shamed by it, ashamed of him, didn't love him or want to be with him, not over the gang and certainly not over loyalty to Dutch.

"Well if that is what you think, home is that way." Arthur pointed North. "Get going you might make it by nightfall."

John jumped on the back of the wagon with Micah, at least he was unconscious. So much of him wanted to leave, to hurt Arthur, he couldn't, he needed to save Rose. Every day spent trying to win back trust in the gang was another day she was on her own, scared and alone, not protected and not safe.

Micah woke up eventually, much to their dismay, he sat and scowled and moaned and groaned. Every sentence an innuendo on their perversions, the filth, it was even bothering Javier in the end.

"Shut up Micah, sick of hearing it." He whined in his thickest accent.

"I suppose you knew," Micah challenged his casualness to the revelation.

"We all know, Micah." Javier turned to look at John. "You forget we were together long before you arrived."

"Yeah, and we will be together long after your death." Arthur hastened to add.

"Is that so Morgan, got designs on killing me now." Micah tried to stand up, reach for Arthur, John kicked his shin, making him drop.

"Sit down you whining whinge bag." John said, frustrated with it all.

"What's the matter Micah, can't defend yourself against a fairy." Arthur smirked, Javier and John, joined him in laughter at Micah's expense.

They rolled into camp after dark; the tension still thick between them. There was definitely another argument brewing, it wasn't clear which direction it would come from. Arthur and Micah battled to get to Dutch first. It made John profoundly sad to see him still behaving like a child towards the man, desperate for his approval.

"How did it go?" Hosea approached John.

"As about as well as could be expected." John tried to rationalise. Their conversation interrupted by the heated argument emitted from Dutch's tent. Arthur emerged first, ranging, whatever was said he wasn't happy about it.

"Nice one Marston," He was in a state of complete fury. "Is there any part of my life you are not intent on ruining?"

"How is this my fault, you left." John pushed him, this was happening, it been bubbling for days, time for the bloodletting to begin.

"Boy's please don't fight." Hosea tried to intervene; it was no use. Arthur already had John in a headlock, John swept his legs from under him, Arthur losing his balance still had the agility to land on top of John.

"Seriously," He roared in John's face. The rest of the gang gathered around, while another fight was contemptuous, the intrigue of finding out what caused the rippling animosity was too much to ignore. "I gave you a choice, John, him or me, you chose him."

"You never gave me a chance to choose." John kneed him in the groin, which was slightly unfair in a typical fight, but this was Arthur. "You left Arthur because you are a coward!" John ran, howling, the trees his only chance for solitude, his mind racing, there was no choice, not really. 

He begged him to stay, not to leave him or Rose; told him his home was with them. So what if he never mentioned Giorgio, the secret lover, it was all over, he didn't exist when Arthur was around.

"Arthur, are you ok?" Charles knelt by his side.

"Get away from me." Arthur winced in agony, trying to get up. "Just leave me alone." He hobbled, embarrassed in the opposite direction to John. Now everyone knew, they hadn't been apart all this time. Fallen once again without their knowledge, broken apart again because they were too stupid to love each other appropriately.

"Leave him for a moment, he needs time to cool down." Hosea prompted Charles, this was Arthur, he could get a real sore head when he wanted, it was only the astute and cautious brain that could navigate the hurt and bring some sense to the boy.

"John." Mary-Beth called to him in the darkness, he was a sobbing mess. "Oh, John," She knelt beside him, cradling his head against her chest as he sobbed uncontrollably against her. 

"You two will never learn." She tried to offer solace, what could she say, so much had been going on without their knowledge, secrets and lies were all they seemed capable of.

"He will come around, he always does, eventually." That made him cry more, for the first time, he truly believed the chasm between them was too vast, forgiveness was not forthcoming. Mary-Beth considered this was the time to reveal the truth. She bit her lip pensively, having promised Arthur never to reveal his secret, the real reason their love always hit difficulties.

"Hey," Charles called out, making them aware of his presence. John cautiously removed himself from Mary-Beth's chest, aware her and Charles were a somewhat subdued item. He wiped the tears with his shirt sleeve, not wishing another man to witness what a blubbing mess Arthur could make him.

"I wanted to see that you were alright." Charles kneeled next to him. "I haven't known Arthur as long as you guys, but I can see a tremendous amount of good in him, he is kind and thoughtful, generous, he goes out of his way for strangers like no man I have ever known." John snivelled, trying to catch his breath.

"There is also an incredible amount of darkness that sits behind those eyes, he is hurting more than any man I have ever known." Charles huffed unsure what he was trying to achieve, he was in the dark about all of this, wasn't trusted with the camp secret. "I care for Arthur, I don't want to see him get hurt again, I don't think there is enough left in him to recover." John shot him a glance of suspicion, what was Charles trying to get at, was he now Arthur's protector?

"If your intentions are not pure, leave and don't come back." Charles was blunt, Mary-Beth scowled at him for being so ruthless towards John.

"I love him." John's stuttered breaths broke the silence.

"Then stop fighting him and fight for him." Charles clasped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring shake. "He needs to be shown love, not told it and certainly not kicking in the groin." John laughed, he could see why Arthur and Charles were so close, suspect that Arthur might hold a little flame for the brooding man, poor Mary-Beth she does know how to pick them,

"Arthur" Hosea called into the darkness

"Leave me alone, Hosea." His voice croaked.

"Oh, come now, Arthur, you have known me long enough to know that isn't going to happen, so sit down, shut up and let your old man impart some pearls of wisdom." Hosea ordered, finding a stump to perch on, it was getting harder to lower himself so Arthur offer a hand to steady him. "No point in getting to my age if you can't share a lifetime of experience,"

"Bessy and I left the gang once, decided we were going to live law-abiding lives." He got that far-flung look in his eye, Arthur knew it too well to believe this was going to be a quick chat and made himself appropriately comfortable.

"I remember." He drawled

"Slowly over time it proved harder than I thought it was going to be, I kept getting urges" Hosea continued.

"What's your point." Arthur was still a bit flippant, anger permeating from his heated body as the steam wisped in the cold night air.

"When I understood that this life, the gang, was for me, I had to tell Bessy." Hosea used his calming tones to tell his tale, grumpy Arthur wasn't going to stop him from making his point. "I didn't shout and scream and holler at her, I told her how I was feeling, my needs and concerns, and then I allowed her to do the same. We got upset, didn't talk for a while but always gave each other considerations. She knew I wasn't going to stay; it was her decision whether she came with me or not, and I would have to accept it."

"Yeah and you both came back, so what." Arthur responded petulantly.

"You can be rather obstinate when you are angry." Hosea chastised. "Have you and John ever sat down and discussed what you want, what you really want."

"Yes, it's just never the right time." Arthur admitted.

"For who." Hosea suspected it was Arthur, the tortured soul, with loyalty to his core, could never allow himself to believe in happiness.

"For both of us." Arthur was taking John down with him, there was equal blame now, no denying that.

"Funny thing time, you don't realise how important it is until there isn't much of it left." Hosea squeezed his shoulder. "Speak to John, Arthur, find a way of communicating, don't hide or lie and see what the outcome is. If you choose each other, in or out of the gang, you will have all our blessings, I promise you."

"What if we don't choose each other?" Still fighting the inevitable,

"Then we will pick up the pieces, and we carry on like we always have." Hosea left him to ponder, Arthur was always a good boy deep down, followed his father's instructions.

"Javier get in here." Dutch caterwauled, most of the camp were missing, comforting the goddamn lovers; if Dutch wanted to know what was going on Javier was his best bet.

"Yes, Dutch," Javier responded with trepidation.

"What was that, and don't tell me you don't know, you always know more about those two than anyone else." Javier's eyes darted around the tent, trying to connect the dots of what he was witness to and what it probably meant.

"The boat thing a few months ago." He huffed, he hated betraying Arthur but loyalty to Dutch came first. "Arthur went mad because this guy was taunting him, saying he shot John."

"And." Dutch was still none the wiser.

"When I asked him about it, the guy was John's lover." Javier gesticulated widely trying to provide a reason, but none was there.

"You didn't think to tell me." Dutch scowled.

"I didn't think there was anything tell." Javier bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"Get out." Dutch commanded.

"What are you thinking, boss," Micah sneered.

"They have lied to us all for years." Dutch admitted, placing his hands on his hips. "They have seen each other behind our backs, secret liaisons, secret lovers. If they can lie about this, what else are they hiding."

"Dutch, do think it is a coincidence that Marston has turned up now." Micah stirred the pot.

"What do you mean," Dutch responded.

"Well the Pinkertons have been riding us hard for months, all of a sudden they are nowhere to be seen, then Jonny boy arrives." Micah stirred expertly, placing the pieces together. 

"Then there is Arthur, secret correspondents, how else did Hosea and Susan know John got shot." He held back his grin of absolute delight, he couldn't have asked for a better moment for those to idiots to fall apart. It was a gift from the Gods, perverse, unthinkable, and it was going to free him from his servitude. No more Dutch and no more Pinkertons. 

"Micah, I want you to ask around, go scouting." Dutch whispered with furious rage. "If this is a setup, I want evidence, which one is betraying me."

"Yes, boss." Micah saluted his mission, leaving the camp laughing to himself. Dutch's coal eyes burnt with intensity, piecing together the lies, the unexplained absences, how long had this been going on and where was it leading.


	37. Bonding

Arthur approached him as the afternoon sun bowed in the sky, chucking his cattleman on his sleeping body. Hosea's words ruminating in his mind. In or out of the gang, they had to decide what they were going to do. The kiss played on his mind; a match lit once again burning until it singed the tips of his fingers. If that was the case, the conversation that needed to be had couldn't take place anywhere near camp. Too many secrets were at risk of falling out, too many carefully curated lies. The revelation of their actual relationship caused too much of a stir in camp to think the rest could be released so effortlessly. Even Charles, his most loyal friend, was sour, not towards him or John or what they were together, once again it was the lies that did for them. Arthur didn't have the energy to even argue with himself any more, _a truth omitted is not a lie if done to protect_, who was he fooling, so gullible and stupid to think anyone would believe such nonsense. 

The truth, if it can be called that after so many lies, was Arthur had always concealed John's movements, his whereabouts from the gang, scared they might be tempted to draw him back in. Those fears were pointless, he bounded back into their lives, like a lost puppy, all bright-eyed and excitable. Arthur wasn't buying it, a lifetime of studying John meant this new larger than life character was acting up, hiding trauma, John barely mentioned Rose, or Giorgio, and nothing of the new lady with the baby. He was keeping it all bottled up, thinking Arthur didn't know.

"Where are we going." He wiped the sleep from his eyes, confused that it was Arthur that woke him. He was still full of simmering rage, pulsing through every muscle and he flinched and shuffled impatiently.

"Hunting." His monotone response, he couldn't see any way of communicating with each other that wasn't going to lead to an argument.

"Can't one of the others do it, I am tired." He yawned and rolled back into his bed. Most of the night spent getting outrageously drunk to try and subdue some of the turmoil. Arthur had him questioning everything, what choice, and when, he was gone before John got back. Wasn't even aware Arthur and Giorgio had met until days later.

"Either contribute or get out, don't need no additional mouths to feed." The words were intentionally harsh, he wanted him gone before the damage and suspicion started to become unbearable, regardless of Hosea's words he couldn't break his heart again.

"Alright," John responded, rising out of his cot. Concealing the pain from Arthur, not allowing him to see it was riling him, Arthur was too good at reading him, good at recognising problems. If John was going to save Rose, he needed to be aloof, stoic, be like Arthur. 

"What crawled up your ass," John said with a malevolent smile across his face, delivering an alluring wink to suggest he would more than happily oblige if the vacancy was open. Arthur shook his head in utter disdain, not for the joke or the idea he would allow John anywhere near his ass, his forced enticement always made him look disturbed, not attractive. They set off, Boadicea and Jezebel riding again, into the wildness, past the swamps with the alligators and straight into St-Denis. John frowned.

"Ain't much to hunt that I would much want to eat on the streets of St Denis." He said wittily, mocking Arthur's southern drawl accent. He didn't get a response, dutifully followed his silent partner all the same. They meandered through the avenues and into the Chinese quarter, their old stomping ground. John couldn't say he missed the clawing smog or the haranguing calls of sharp tongues. They were close to the shop, Joseph's and Theodore's, he was hoping they would stop in, a trip down memory lane. Arthur hitched Boadicea, John did the same for Jezebel, they sauntered down a side alley, it was dark and damp and not at all enticing, a red lantern glittered above a concealed door.

"What are we doing here?" John said concerned, their limited experiences of these places were one's he wished to forget.

"It's the only way I know how," Arthur said flatly. He shuffled with slight embarrassment, the first revelation his.

"How to what?" John inquired, still cautious, misunderstanding the purpose of their arrival at such a salacious venue.

"To talk to you." Arthur dared to stare for a moment, his ocean blue eyes full of pain and a lifetime of broken promises.

"No, Arthur, we ain't like that." John tried to close the space, place his hand on Arthur's shoulder to reassure him, he was shrugged off.

"I am like that, John," Arthur said coldly, revealing detail from his past that John had no knowledge of. "If you want to stay in the gang then you are doing this with me."

John quaked with trepidation as they were led into the smokehouse by a small Chinese man, bald, with a pointy beard, he wore traditional garb which gave him the appearance of floating. John's mind flashed with memories, the exploding head of the fat man as Arthur shot him, his avenging angel. He wanted nothing more than to grab his hand for security, for comfort, that didn't appear to be on offer. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet aroma that made his stomach turn with nausea, so much time had passed since he partook, yet his senses recalled the memories as if it were yesterday. They were shown to two beds, placed to the side of each other, bear and unadorned, two pipes sat burning ready and the curtains were drawn, given them a semblance of privacy. 

"Arthur, we don't need to do this to talk." John tried to reason. His hands trembling with nerves, what if this broke him, his strength, his need to save Rose lost within the walls of an opium den. 

"How will I know you are being honest with me?" Arthur said woefully, gulping at the ridiculousness of it all. He had no right to ask, painfully aware that John was lying to him, concealing so much. That was the problem, in protecting John, Arthur was aware of so many truth's, removing John's right to secrecy without his consent. He couldn't be angry at him for wanting some sense of privacy, but that isn't how this worked, the hurt was there, and it had to be revealed.

"I am not the liar." John shot back in his defence, met with crippling silence. John was aware it didn't matter that Arthur lied to him about most things, lied to him about his relationship with opium, apparently. This was what Arthur needed to trust him again, how he was going to pull this off John had no idea, but unlike his former lover towards him, John trusted Arthur and if the whole truth came out, he was sure he would help him, somehow. He picked up the pipe and dragged in a lung full of smoke, coughing as it burnt down his throat; when he was suitably dazed, Arthur did the same. He felt the warmth, the cosy hug, he once experienced before. It was instantly agreeable, scarily good. John wasn't sure how this was going to help communication, he reached for the pipe wishing a second hit.

"No." Arthur grabbed his hand, John tingled all over, a caress not delivered in anger or violence, he didn't realise how much he was craving it. Touch, Arthur's touch brutal and beautiful, he was masterful and had a complete mastery of him, mind, body and soul

"Let me see your eyes?" He joined him on his bed. Pulling his chin up towards the dimmed lights. Finding his pupils, big and hazy, full doe. "You have had enough," Arthur said softly. "Do you want to lie down?" John groaned, allowing himself to fall back against the bed. It wasn't exactly like before. That time he smoked a lot, quickly, was filled with visions of Beth and his mother. This time he was still in the room, could see Arthur, it felt safe. Arthur's broad shoulders, hunched slightly, his hair drooping in his eyes, he must have had it cut recently as it was growing back in miss-shaped lengths. He preferred him with shorter hair, being able to see his features, sharp cheekbones, thick brow, his sunken eyes like pools of water he could drown in. He shuffled on the bed, placing a knee against Arthur's back; if he slipped into a dream state, he wanted an anchor to the real world, to him.

"You want to be mad at me, be mad." John coughed up the words, his throat heavy. "Don't think you are the only one with grievances?" It stung to admit, this time apart was probably his fault, the mistakes he made, it didn't mean Arthur was absolved, he was no angel.

"What grievances have you got?" Arthur said, distantly, no emotion just calm. Determined to draw as much out of him as he could before revealing what he knew. Arthur was interested to see if John lied, denied or pretended certain parts of the last year didn't happen. To understand how far John would go to protect himself, how much of the little boy he raised was lost to him. The opium helped, took the edge off, removed the emotion, pain, hurt. Made it a more manageable conversation, two brothers catching up after time apart, as it should be.

"You didn't tell me about women bleeding for starters." It was such an irrelevant statement, the opium wired into his brain, protecting him from the hard truths were finding niggling annoyances. At the time the world had ended, appeared silly now, but John's mind didn't compartmentalise moments, feeling was feeling, and he felt his absence most that day.

"What! How is that my responsibility?" Arthur said with his beautiful southern twang. He scrutinised John, sat on the bed beside him, an in-between world of not withdrawn but not intimate, observing for any hint of a lie.

"You taught me the rest of it" John's voice whined like a child "Why would you leave that part out?"

"It didn't seem important at the time." Arthur offered, he shuddered slightly, the opium taking its own effects, delivering its own memories. He tried to shake it, to focus on them, why he didn't reveal such an apparently innocuous piece of information to John when he was younger when they still had time.

"Well it was, I almost killed every man moving because our daughter got her monthly blood and you weren't there to stop me." John was too honest, our daughter, not uncle any more, ours. The one he walked out on and left him to raise on his own. The one whose golden hair and ocean blue eyes, pained and scowling, he instantly fell in love with. Fell because she with her grumpy commands and concerned frown reminded him of Arthur. Was Arthur like that as a child, scared and angry? John might not have been able to save Arthur, too far gone, but he could save Rose.

"Stop what?" Arthur chuckled "Stop you being irrational." He was laughing, always a good sign, his guard dropping.

"That's your job, ain't it," John was sleepy. "What you always promised to do?"

"I always promised to protect you," Arthur reminded him of the promise made so long ago. "After yesterday, I think I am still compliant with that promise."

"Yeah, well sometimes I need protecting from myself," John said, slipping into a warm haze like a dream.

"That's your argument, you are mad at me because you're an idiot." Arthur's laughter was infectious, always the same so warm and loving. John reached out for him, pulling at his shirt, drawing him closer. He begrudgingly obliged wresting himself against John as he slipped into the twilight of this world and into the next. Arthur considered joining him, letting it all fall away, moving back into what felt right. He couldn't allow himself, not yet, nothing revealed other than what they both knew, Arthur was unreliable, once again failed in his duties as a father, first to John, the boy he promised to protect and then to Rose. His beautiful boy, all sharp angles and indignant scowls had coloured a part of the picture for Arthur he never considered. All these years protecting John from the world, he never thought that sometimes John might need protecting from himself.

John awoke in the dimmed light, the candles, flickering, almost extinguished in a sea of wax. Arthur was next to him, smoking a cigarette. He was still tingling from the heady experience, a rest he needed more than he realised. He turned to face him dry-mouthed and protected.

"You are just surly with me because I didn't tell you about Giorgio." He felt secure in revealing the fact, Arthur clearly wasn't going to do it, to speak of the past and let sleeping dogs lie.

"I am not mad because you didn't tell me about Giorgio." Arthur drew in a lung full of smoke and passed the cigarette to John. "I knew about him all along."

"Why didn't you say anything?" John tried to sit up, riled that he was left thinking one thing and finding, as usual, it was not the case. He felt a rush of sickness, his mind was mush and stomach rolling, he led back down, requiring a moment to compose himself.

"I wanted you to tell me when you were ready." Arthur's turn for honesty, delivered with affection and consideration. It was always the same, patient, waiting for others to feel comfortable with telling him the truth, he never returned the favour; never unburdened himself from his own secrets and lies.

"Then why are you so angry with me?" John took a drag; it was a fair question to ask.

"Because you never responded to my letter to invite me back, you made your choice, you chose him." John thought for a moment, he wasn't the quickest, certainly not when it came to feelings, the added relaxing warmness of opium coursing through his system, had him at a complete loss.

"What letter?" Was all he could think to ask.

"The letter I left with your goddamn watch?" Arthur groaned, frustrated, John was cruel with the token of his affections showing everyone in camp the watch, his birthday present from Arthur. Only he sold the watch, gave it away to fund his new life with his new lover. That was left out of the story, not given a moment of thought. John was re-writing history, and Arthur was damned if he was going to let him.

"You left this for me." John pulled the Onyx watch from his pocket. The gift returned by his lover; it would appear he got the wrong one. Of course, it was Arthur, Giorgio never saw the watch, it lived under his bed at the rectory until it was sold. How could he be so dense? Only Arthur, loving, romantic Arthur would know the significance, would find the watch and return it to him.

"How else do you think it got on your dining room table?" Arthur was metabolising the opium quicker; his warm hug was being replaced with annoyance or irksome irritation.

"I didn't find it on my dining room table." John got up; no amount of sickness was going to prevent him from connecting the dots. "I found it in a box in Giorgio's bedroom after he died." Arthur could see his mental cogs whirring, his eyes jousting trying to make sense of it all. Arthur previously suspected that the letter was destroyed by the treacherous lover named Giorgio, it was easier to believe that John didn't love him, didn't want him.

"Thought he got it for you, didn't you?" Arthur replied, still trying to protect his heart, denying John entry. He wanted to believe that John always treasured Giorgio over him. That his sudden reappearance was caused by Giorgio's death. Arthur was the consolation prize.

"I thought you were dead, that you left angry and was going to hurt yourself." John bellowed with anger. "I read every paper, every day trying to make sure you are ok, tracking you." He flashed from doe to wolf and back again. "Did you not think the other man in my life might conceal the letter and the watch?" John threw it at him incensed. "We could have been together all this time!" He started to sob. Always a sign he wasn't lying. Arthur made constructs and lines in his head always assuming a level of deviousness in John, an ability to hurt, the only one that caused intolerable pain to them was him. Arthur couldn't deny he may have been a bit brainless when he riled Giorgio up and left him in John's house, alone, with the letter and the watch. Having revealed that sometimes in his life, death felt like the only option, Arthur left his precious boy with all the morose possibilities to deal with, all those associations were never the case, or ever his intentions. He couldn't hide his elation, the realisation he wasn't second, he was first.

"Leaving you that day was the hardest thing I have ever done. I was so happy." His large piston arms wrapped around his not so slender frame, cooing quietly into his ear as his body trembled. Feathering kisses along his forehead as he messaged his neck, trying to calm him, poor John, the person he needed protecting from most was Arthur.

"We can still be happy." John's voice broke with a desperate pleading need. He plunged their lips together, trying to recreate the kiss they shared the day before. Arthur allowed it for a moment, their lips caressing through his whimpers, it was soft and seductive but couldn't continue.

"No, we can't" Arthur was firm again, removing his comfort, it was so easy to fall with John. His proximity and emotion were all it took. He had to be strong for both of them.

"Why not?" John whined; his eyes puffy from crying, his lips moist and demanding of attention.

"Because I know about the baby, John, your baby." Arthur picked up his items, secured safely from robbing hands. He drew the curtain and left. John was drawn, exhausted, so many lies, Arthur seemed to know all of his. Walking monologue of verbal diarrhoea he once called him, that wasn't the case anymore. John and Arthur weren't communicating, so how did Arthur know all these things. Arthur was running, as usual, taking all John had to give and the leaving before he revealed his own fallible assumptions. John rejected the enforced space; he was expert in these games.

"My baby only exists because you are a stubborn old man who left us," John shouted after him, the cool breeze of the St-Denis night air did nothing to alleviate his nausea.

"It doesn't matter why John, you've got responsibilities, whatever we had died the moment you decided you liked women," Arthur growled, crossing the street trying to enforce distance.

"I don't like women;" John retorted a little too loudly, gaining peculiar glances from passers-by. This was not a conversation for the street. He caught up with Arthur pulling him down an alleyway. It actually worked; he wasn't strong enough to bat him away. Arthur could exude some force, it wasn't forthcoming, the opium still had its grip.

"It was a very drunk moment of madness because the man I loved walked out on me and the other man I thought I loved turned into a drunken, abusive ass." John was giving everything up, all of it. Why, how, and because, Arthur had to understand the impact of his leaving.

"Either way, you still have a family, and you still have responsibilities" Arthur gesticulated widely, this was too important to him. He knew the pain of failing, of not being a good father when it mattered most, he couldn't let John go through that, wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.

"I ain't being no third wheel like you were with Giorgio." It was crass and totally insensitive to what he was feeling. It was pragmatic and rational, something John could relate to. Arthur was under no illusions that John would sacrifice the happiness of the mother of his child and his unborn baby if it meant having Arthur in his life, that was a bridge too far for the outlaw.

"Still not into the suffragette movement, are you?" John said jokingly, trying to alleviate some of the strain to get him to stay and talk "She ain't waiting for me to propose, expecting me to do right by her."

"You should do it all the same" Arthur recoiled in horror. "I brought you up better than that." He was done too annoyed to face John's selfish reasoning, always the same; if John wanted something damn everyone else. He stumbled away from him, this was not what he imagined when entering the opium, the pain flowing freely straight to his heart. John once again twisting the facts, blurring the lines until Arthur was left perplexed and confused.

"She left Arthur" John stopped him dead in his tracks. "She couldn't live a lie anymore, what I had to offer wasn't good enough." His voice was hoarse, broken with emotion.

"My baby is gone; I will never know him or her." His eyes began to well with tears again, finally admitting the truth of the situation. He wasn't even given a chance to be a useless failure of a father, that opportunity was taken from him.

"John I'm…." Arthur moved swiftly to be by his side, to comfort him.

"Do not say you are goddamn sorry, that just ain't gonna cut in no more?" He swiped his affections away, not willing Arthur to make himself feel better through comfort. The reality was apparent, Arthur always thought John was running away from his responsibility, that John was at fault for all of it. Most of it was not his fault, life taking from him his opportunities to love, why couldn't Arthur see that?

"Clara said we been living our lives for other people for too long; she is right, I had to let her go." The words chimed in his ears, remembering his decision to let John go, hoping he could build a better life without him. Was that a mistake, would John have been happy by his side all this time, could life have been different? It always led him back to Rose, where was Rose? Arthur was too scared to ask, not yet, the pain too much to add layers of untold hurt on. What if she was dead, succumbed to a childhood illness, what if it was too painful for John to admit? John confessed she was angry with him, in the river, but how long ago was that; anything could have happened in between. Arthur could believe John abandoning a woman he did not love, a child he had yet to meet but not Rose. John loved Rose, adored her even more than he did Arthur. They shared that burden together; the intense and unrelenting love John gave. Had John lost everything, Arthur wasn't there to protect him, failing again. A sweeping wave of nausea washed over him, and he threw up. John calmed, Rose's tantrums taught him to restrain the wolf, not to be so volatile. He could see Arthur was struggling, mentally and physically. They walked for a bit along the avenues, trying to get some air into their opium filled lungs. They found a bench in a park full of sweet blossoming hydrangeas. They sat quietly, contemplating, still so much to be said.

"Giorgio shot me, Arthur, he Goddamn shot me!" John was still annoyed by almost losing his life to that weasel, trust him to have good aim the one time the gun was pointed at John. "I can't tell you how good it feels to be free of him."

"You loved him once." Arthur reasoned, suspecting his words were for his benefit. There was no denying there was a passion between the two, unhealthy, lust-filled but it still existed, John couldn't protect him from that.

"I never loved him," John said calmly. "I just needed him to get over you."

"How did that work out for you?" Arthur chortled, relaxing.

"Terribly, if you must know." John thought back, all the moments when it felt wrong when he closed his eyes and pretended it was Arthur touching him and not Giorgio. The start was all fire, all intrigue and discovery, almost addiction. Soon as Clara arrived it changed, he should have accepted then and there it wasn't going to work. That was his mistake, he cared to admit, now Giorgio was dead, Clara gone, broken by his lack of action.

"Perhaps it is time we accept what we have always known," Arthur said stoically. "Outlaws and love do not mix; we are a pair of fools that just won't learn."

"I don't believe it; love doesn't work for us because we keep trying to love the wrong people." John weaved his fingers into Arthurs, it was risky, a public park, but he was overwhelmed with the need to confess his feelings. "What we have always known is we love each other, if we just stopped fighting it then maybe we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I killed him." Arthur blurted out, he couldn't cope with the declarations not without confessing, it was too cruel a lie to live with.

"What?" John scowled, confused.

"I killed Giorgio." Arthur punctuated every word with sadness, sensing it was a crime he couldn't return from. Arthur John so sweetly and assuredly confirmed his love, Arthur once again was poised to break that love John might claim to not to have loved Giorgio, this was the test to see if that was true.

"Why?" John maintained his scowl, his fingers slipping from Arthurs.

"He said he shot you, that you were dead and I can't remember much beyond that," Arthur whispered, he couldn't recall much of the rage-filled hunt for Giorgio, it was all a blur. "We went for a little swim, one of us didn't come up for air."

"I love you, Arthur Morgan." John declared smiling all teeth and gleaming brown eyes.

"That wasn't the response I was expecting?" Arthur taking the mantle of confusion from John.

"Clara gave me the farm; the deeds are in my name," John smirked, his head bobbing with joy. "You, in your murderous vendetta on my former lover, secured my future, my children's future, my grandchildren's future."

"Alright." Arthur chuckled. "Don't get carried away with yourself, one child hasn't even been born yet." He returned his fingers to John. "I am still a bad man."

"That you are, more importantly, you are my bad man." John squeezed his leg, an act of intimacy they could get away with. "Pair of outlaws to the end."


	38. Submission

Enlightened by the revelations, finding bonds forged long ago, still intact, more potent, growing, revitalising their beguiling and enchanting love. The cage that once separated them, now rusted and weak, encouraging contact, a journey of rediscovery confirming how they always longed to be, together. Arthur lured John on a date, it was a light-hearted affair with silly moving pictures, tales of woe and stickup artists. In the darkened gloom of the theatre, feeling brave or stupefied by love he reached out, tentatively placing his large palm across John's still bony shoulder. For all his newfound bulk and masculinity there were fragments of the undernourished boy, flesh and bone aching to be fed. John ever black and white, grabbed his hand, pulling him tighter into an embrace, nestling into the warmth of Arthur's stiffening chest. Against all his inclinations and concerns, Arthur allowed it, he relaxed; if anyone dared to complain they could always shoot them, that was their way after all.

They emerged in the first throws of dusk, the unseasonably warm spring day promising a few more hours of stifling humidity, making their bodies sticky with perspiration. Each step into the haze entwined them closer, lost in the heady intoxication of their combined spirit. The remnants of the opium blanketing them with security, playfully challenging each other with touches and caresses when they thought no one was looking. Their tender stokes of affection, broken by moments of intense desire, fractured memories of passion and dominance, the developing dreams of climax against rough yielding hands. John pressed his growing bulge against Arthur's taut ass cheeks, eliciting a sweet groan of expectation from his lips. Arthur indulged the sentiment with a quick kiss of his fingers and an intense longing gaze of seduction, promising everything. A game ensued, how many plausible excuses they identify for not returning to camp, convincing themselves with faux arguments that an evening spent in St Denis was preferable to a long ride in Lemoyne Raider country. It was so perfectly natural, how they should have been all along. Arthur was mindful not to break the peace but one issue, the most important, still nagged incessantly in the back of his mind.

"John, where is Rose?" He delivered the question placidly, hoping their lovingness towards each other would prompt truth, not grief. John stiffened at the sound of her name; a hesitant rub of his neck was all the confirmation Arthur needed; John was hiding something.

"Staying with friends." A scuff of his boot, lowering of his head, his hand delicately trembling, divulging the thoughts he was trying to hide. John thrust them into his trouser pockets, attempting to conceal the dishonesties that they sought to reveal.

"She was angry with me for getting shot, stopped talking for a while." That was true, not a lie. "Then letting her baby brother or sister leave, I figured we needed some time apart."

Arthur bowed, reluctant to accept his comments, John's body was shifty, betraying him. He could wholeheartedly believe Rose was furious with him, he was a prize idiot after all, but there was something else, something not right. Arthur shuddered, an undercurrent of fear made him nauseous, his hair's stood on end, another argument was brewing he could sense it.

"What are you not telling me?" He was patient, always gentle when coaxing information out of John.

"I promised her I would bring you back," A streak of hotness blushed across his cheeks, Arthur assessed, embarrassment, his motivations were all along directed towards him and them, he now had confirmation.

"John, you shouldn't make a promise that isn't in your gift to keep," Arthur complained, tormented, once again they'd fallen into their rhythms, acquiesced to their desires without diligence or resolution to the consequences. This dance, theirs, always faltered and splintered so cruelly, a swan denied it's crown by a lover, doomed to die, submerged by the lake. Tense and frustrated, Arthur rationalised what was so honestly spoken, that all along he was the prize, the rest of it was an intentional subterfuge to get to him. Ever loyal and obedient he once again walked into John's trap, his heart the forfeit for his naivety.

"You are an intolerable bastard," John shouted, so consumed by the present, all twitching nerves and wolfish glare. Could he not see forever, the stars, their story, and how brutally it would end?

"Do you know what Rose needs, what Rose begs for, shouts and screams for?" He was puffing with rage that Arthur could be so restrained by such a request. A suggestion that in Arthur's mind at least, that it wasn't going to happen, after all they had put themselves through.

"Her Uncle Arthur, the notably absent one," John pushed him with such dominant force that Arthur allowed himself to stumble backwards. John's tenacity fragile, crumbling under the enormity of their last chance, only to have inflicted the notion of unrequited love. He was teetering on the precipice of self-annihilation. "I am responsible; I've been doing all the heavy lifting, it's about time you took some of the weight."

"Demoted back to Uncle?" Arthur tried to deflect his fury; reaching for John and pulling him near, a beleaguered attempt at comfort; this isn't where he envisioned the night going. He was traumatised by John's reaction, his vexation towards him, the only method to protect was levity.

"I was father before," He quipped, producing a soft, radiant smile intended to tempt the doe back out. John was incensed, Arthur noticing his slip earlier in the opium den, our daughter, nothing ever got passed the focussed mind of Arthur Morgan. Now he was using that lapse to try and lighten the mood, to try and pacify him into submission all so he could abandon them once again.

"Yeah well, father is a title you earn by being present," John growled, forceful and angst-ridden, his glower intense with righteousness. Arthur recoiled, his ocean blues sparkled in desolation, the world with all its weight resting on his shoulder was not enough to stop the dagger spearing his heart. His crime, the most precious secret of his despair, used brutally to display his failings. Absent father, that title consumed him for so many years, yet John, his John, chose to use it, to hurt him immeasurably in the only way John could, with the truth. John flinched in realisation, remorse pulsing through him, it's heartlessly misplaced context, disrespect to Arthur's history, he meant now, not then. If it were true, which it wasn't, John still chastised himself for saying it so tactlessly, in heat and anger when it was a mere plea for his return. 

"I am sorry, Arthur;" He attempted to close the space, deliver soft apologetic caresses, hoping, pleading that it would be dismissed as an inconsequential utterance, an unintentional blunder. Instead, he was propelled away, with equal if not more force, losing when he felt so sure he could win. This was Arthur, no forgiveness and no forgetting, John shrunk, his body trembling, couldn't cope with the rejection, not now, not after confessions of love and serenity coursed through them. 

"You have no idea how hard it is to raise a kid on your own," John whined, a justification for his inaccuracies offered contritely. However devastating the bond he shared with Eliza, an affliction, when Arthur arrives upends everything and then disappears, leaving them to pick up the pieces, mitigate the impact. To be left sure any attempt to replicate his presence is never good enough, never Arthur. John could never dare to speak of such comparisons, Arthur too frail to hear the realities.

"Excuse me," Arthur's steely gaze focused on his counterpart. The drawbridge to his heart closing was insusceptible to invasion, the final battle would be his death, all he had left was his defences, built over a lifetime, no surrender, not capture. "I raised a kid in a gang of outlaws, a kid with a goddamn gun and no sense. Don't talk to me about hard!"

The quaint civility of the St-Denis well-to-do couldn't stop themselves from gawking at the heightened escalations of two nefarious unkempt men roaring in the street. Parasols of pastel shades twirled with excitement, canes tapped with an expectation of violence as uncouth and wicked words filled the air, articulations of darkness that their wealth shaded from them. Raising children, abandoning them, the difficulties of poverty and longing in the wilderness, better than any dime novel, played out real and rugged as though the bard himself had penned it. They were joined by two officers of the law who turned the corner, eyeing their cataclysmic destruction, suspiciously. They weren't stupid, sheathing their fury, they bowed to their crowed, commenced their stroll to the tavern, in crippling silence, rippling with aggression, seeking relief, away from prying eyes. The proposal for a nice meal and an early night wasn't going according to plan. 

Arthur grunted at the balding tavern owner, requesting two rooms. His presence was missed as they shuffled indignant towards each other, waiting for his return. The arrival of the keys ignited animosity once again, Arthur chucking the additional key at John, threw it too forcefully, the metal gashing along the bridge of his nose, almost having his eye out. Arthur retreated up the stairs to the sanctuary and solitude of his quarters. John pursued him; if he closed the door, that would be it, the end. Gasping from breathlessness, his mind addled with too many thoughts fighting for supremacy, he stalked the only man he loved, ravaged once again by his coldness. Arthur slammed his door, with expectant rush and fury, John sacrificed his toes to keep it open. A tweeting bird's song of swearing departed his lips as he clutched his foot and allowed the door to swing open. 

The room was plush with red satins, and gold inlay, the fabrics of eroticism, stained and worn with previous liaisons, to imagine further would turn off any sense of romance for those well versed in etiquette and propriety. They were outlaws born to the wild, dirt ridden servitude, natures cleansing ruggedness written within every inch of their existence. This room, like so many others, was not coloured with love but with wrath and hostility. John bounced into the room, shaking his leg to usher away the pain. He was greeted by the full enraged might of Arthur, pacing, his eyes grey, set to kill. The stickiness of the scorching afternoon had yet to relent to cool evening breeze. Beads of sweat trickled down John's neck as he uncomfortably stepped forward, with one step, he adopted the role he was always meant to play, the ringmaster, Arthur, his toothy snarling tiger. John began the careful process of taming his wild beast, he slammed the door with equal force, punctuating his power, and drew his gun on Arthur.

"Kneel on the floor!" He commanded; his gravelly voice authoritative.

"You cannot be serious." Arthur tilted his head, his ash hair tumbling seductively across his brow. His hot temper a furnace, reluctant to cool. "You ain't going to shoot me, John!"

"Do you really want to test me?" John yelled, spit flying across the room, landing on Arthur's boots. "I got more goddamn reason than most to do it!" A shot of cold lightning tore up Arthur's spine, his eyes filled ocean blue. What had he done to his boy? That was simple, he was Pestilence, a virus, that infected everyone who dared to love him. A trojan horse, placed so subtly, discreetly tainting innocence until it corrupted every fibre. His greatest victim, the one exposed most, finally revealed the extent of his poisoning, a slavering mess of spit and bile was all that remained. He maintained his breathing, slow and measured, the initial surprise of a gun, John's gun aimed at his head made his heart race at the pace of a prized stallion. He could not allow that to be known, his fear, the only sign, sweat glistening from the roaring furnace of his body could be easily dismissed as the unseasonably humid spring day air still lingering in the dusk sky.

Arthur obliged his request, collapsing on his knees, he bound his wrist with his other hand behind his trembling back. The stance, an acceptance, an attempt at prevention in case he felt compelled to plead for his life, there were no pleas when bound and kneeling that could stop the inevitable. He inhaled a few stuttered breaths, waiting for the barrel to be placed against his head. At least it was John, his brother, lover, the man who could claim to know him intimately, beyond anyone else's assumptions of knowledge. John owned parts of Arthur no other human being had the gumption to obtain, given willingly, or unwillingly, but rightly in a gracious bid to match John's own readiness to gift everything. Arthur reminded himself he was a bad man, John was kind, always better and it was right that this was now happening.

"Look at me, Arthur!" John commanded; his head tilted in utter despair, eyelashes fluttering above bloodshot eyes, tears threatening to fall. Arthur shook his head to the request, squeezing his own eyes tight, not capable of observing his broken boy.

"I can't" Arthur responded deflated, accepting his fate, listening for the tell-tale click of a revolver moments before the bullet quits.

"Goddamn you, Arthur, look at me!" He growled with the intensity of a wolf revealing itself to unsuspecting prey. John kicked the chest of draws in frustration, it rumbled, its cheap trinkets chimed, mercilessly disturbed by his angst. Arthur's irises blue and transcendent shot up capturing John's gorgeous pools of anguish, they fell back to the floor, unable to witness the torment of their final act. John was determined, he stepped forward forcefully, placing the barrel of his gun under Arthur's chin, using the weight to guide his gaze back up to him.

"You are so beautiful," John was shaking, having never done this before his nerves twitching, his breath ragged. "Say it, Arthur!"

"What?" Arthur's pupils blew, confused, his brow furrowed confirming to John there was no doubt in his mind. Arthur was a divine creature, stunning in his doubts and inability to see his own nature, his imperfections were flawless and so loveable. There was not enough evil in the world, stars and beyond that could ever thwart John's need to love this fool, Arthur Morgan.

"Tell me you are beautiful" John trembled, feeling control slipping, he tensed his wrist, steadying his gun, securing his resolve, it couldn't happen, not yet. "Tell me, or I will shoot you," He cocked the hammer, swaying confidently on his sharp hips. His muscles beginning to relax the old memories of his outlaw ways began to flow, guiding him assuredly down the path he was determined to take.

"I am beautiful" Arthur croaked, inflecting the last word, it sounded more of a question than a statement of fact. His hair dishevelled fell across his brow. John swept it back, tugging at it as he delivered his next command.

"You deserve me," John gulped, his sweaty palm slipping along the beautiful locks of blond hair. This was just as hard for him, neither of them good at words, together they were hopeless.

"I deserve you," Arthur faltered unsure what demon had possessed his boy to make him speak so inexplicably, to demand such things in this moment of finality. Arthur wasn't even sure he aspired to live; if John wanted him dead. That old primal feeling of self-preservation deliberated in his mind, forcing him to repeat the unfathomable and profoundly inaccurate statements. John withdrew the gun from his chin, took a few steps back, still trained on him, hammer still cocked, as he was taught to do.

"You are going to surrender everything to me," John's eyes narrowed, fire and ice, making Arthur flare with indignation. John was not playing, it sounded such an uncomplicated request, to allow John in, to trust him implicitly with his happiness, it was the hardest thing Arthur could let go of. To give John, everything was to lose everything, even John. Only the innocent he spent his lifetime protecting could request such a thing, his virtue and kindness to believe that such a command was achievable. He grimaced and fought with the words, rolling along his tongue like poison, it was too much. John's madness confirmed, his delusion required one final act, curated by him, a belief he could have power and submission and all the things Arthur wished to give so readily, he couldn't, the least he could give him was the declaration he sought.

"I...." He hesitated, his mind rolling with the impossibilities of such a request. John began pacing, his movement wild and unhinged. Not for himself but for John, Arthur complied. "I surrender to you, John." He was astute enough not to play games, not to be sarcastic, to let John get out of his system whatever this was bubbling under his skin. Surrender, what did he mean, how could he ask someone he supposedly loved to surrender, it's not war, just the end of love.

"Good," John said relieved, he gulped in a few deep breaths, his breathing was shallow; if not ceased altogether. His heart drumming in his chest, a loud audible thud, not a time to be holding a gun to his lover's head, he slid it on the sideboard.

"Good, Arthur," His voice was smooth, quieter but his sharp hips and jagged edges still flew skittishly, trying to control the situation.

"Can I get up now?" Arthur asked, bemused, mistakenly assessing the moment of madness had evaporated, the doe returned.

"Yes, do you need a hand, old man?" John smirked; Arthur rolled his eyes, a time where that would have been a slap, John yet to realise how close to the truth it now was, he managed on his own groaning slightly as his bones creaked and cracked.

"Now take your clothes off," John said energetically. He swept his corruptible gaze across every inch of his Arthur's body, captivated by the thought of his nakedness. 

"John!" Arthur objected he was in no mood to expose himself, not after John pointed a gun at his head, forcing him to repeat ineffable comments, committing them to such totality. They couldn't fall back into their old ways, mad with passion and utterly debauched, it was too dangerous. Grimshaw always said they would end up killing each other, Arthur was starting to believe she might be right. His contemptuous gaze refused to abate, waiting expectantly, foot-tapping metronomically, patient and trusting that Arthur would give in. A soothing tut of acceptance rolled from his pouting lips, not to the demands, his resolve could not countenance submission. The actual deep meaning of what was demanded with heat and fire from his lover. To submit was to reveal, to peel back layers, his life's work to protect and preserve and build more until the weaknesses, vulnerabilities that sat so firmly on the surface when he was a boy were buried deeper than the victims of the plague.

"Surrender means all of it, or I will shoot you," John ran his fingers across his revolver to accentuate the point. Arthur began to strip, slowly, muttering to himself over the absurdity of it all. Each button popped in slow agonising torture, it was a defeat to be endured, a lost battle early on still meant victory was in his hands. Yet, to win this war, a war he hadn't consented to be a part of, he couldn't fathom what triumph was for him, the perspective of John's defeat, would they come together to celebrate or cause the final death throw of any love they once had for each other. Should he speak to him of the inherent dangers they were facing if this were to continue?

John was mesmerised, watching as the shirt finally released his torso from its confines. Still buff and sculpted, dull tints of scarring from injuries past. John examined them all, not allowing the pink blush that rose across his skin to deter him out of his lust. The boots and trousers were an intentionally laboured process, Arthur hadn't fully surrendered yet, he was quietly fighting it, still thinking he could rationalise his way out of this; if he could only formulate a plan. John clocked it, a lifetime of study, there would be no escape for him, no freedom to be obtained, he was going to submit. It was up to Arthur to choose willingly or face the consequences.

Naked, Arthur decided shame was not the game he was going to play, he was cocky with daring, presenting his body, his skin a new suit, John the mirror. It wasn't erotic or seductive, intentionally measured and controlled, he flexed his muscle's knowingly, challenging John in his power. John, who had yet to entirely overpower him, required whiles and determination far outside of his farmhand capabilities. If he stayed with the gang, stayed with Arthur, he might have developed such cunning, alas John was about to learn his hardest lesson. Outlaw is a calling, a vocation that requires complete dedication, John failed when he left, he was about to realise the cost.

John watched this act of defiance with suspicion, a mischievous glint of dubious intent flashed in Arthur's eyes. John chose to ignore it, like Dante's inferno, there were levels to navigate through Arthur's persona. His switch in character was just another layer he breached surreptitiously, Arthur was confident, that wouldn't last, he was unknowingly walking into John's trap.

"Get on the bed," Again, Arthur's mind ticked with incredulity before his body obliged, he was in there struggling. John gave him time, didn't push, just allowed him to come to defeat on his own terms, with the odd sideways glance at the loaded gun. Arthur finally led down after minutes of internal battling. He was plank and rigid, _not so cocky now_, John thought to himself. John waited patiently for Arthur's muscles to fully relax into the plush covers, his King surrounded in the finery that deserved the touch of his skin. John bit his lip, his arousal throbbing in the confines of his trousers, it was quickening his blood sooner than intended. How easily he could fall back between those thighs, to yield with thrusts of passion only to find himself acquiescent and utterly obedient. He was resolute, his grit and resolve must be maintained, his thinking methodical and considered, outwit Arthur at every stage to achieve his purpose.

"Put your hands on the bed frame," Arthur did this quicker, another act of rebellion, he placed them on the bed frame above his head, aware that is not where John intended them to be.

"Spread them out, Arthur!" John commanded again. He watched intently those full luscious lips pursed with insults, hostility, Arthur held it in. His lips gleamed with moisture and sweat, beads running furiously down the grooves of his worn face, still handsome, still beautiful, all his.

"If you are going to do this, you need to be clear in your instructions." Next level, teacher, Arthur convinced by his power, instructing John on his wants and how to pursue them. John ignored him, rummaging in his satchel, locating the bonds he was searching for. They were leather, small, smaller than rope but sturdy. He hid them in his pocket so Arthur couldn't see. Gliding onto the bed, climbing around Arthur's naked body, around his half-grown arousal, ignoring his scowl. Arthur was succumbing, it still wasn't enough, not what John planned. In a fluid motion, he swung his thick thighs across Arthur's chests, crushing the air from his lungs. Distracted with breathlessness, John took the opportunity to restrain his wrists to the bedpost. The first was easy, the clips buckling, looping over the bed knob, pulling the restraint tight. Arthur started to thrash, realising what was happening.

"It's ok, Arthur" John reassured; it wasn't welcome. Arthur growled, not at the act, he wasn't so dim as to think John wasn't intending on tying him up, all part of the game; if done correctly. It was the nature of the bonds, not a silk neckerchief or a piece of rope, thick and easy to untie, submission in name alone. These were professional, Arthur experienced them before, once bound there was no escape, he wasn't prepared for such entrapment.

"I can't…John," His voice rolled with fear. "John, I am not..." he was trying to use his free hand to unbuckle the leather bond. John used his whole weight to regain control, pushing Arthur's free arm back against the bedpost and using his nimble fingers to clasp the second restraint. Their breaths became stuttered from the exertion, Arthur's chest was compacted with the full weight of John, his vision blurred. John slowly swung himself around, Arthur sucked in a deep breath, his blood oxygenating compelled him to thrash and fight.

"I need to go out for something," John smirked, enjoying the thought of Arthur bound and tied waiting for his return. Arthur screamed a little too loudly for John to consider leaving him as he was. He undid his bandana, rolled it up into a ball and placed it in his mouth, almost received a bite for his trouble.

"Now behave while I am gone" John kissed his sweaty forehead, with smiling eyes, gazed seductively upon his incandescent lover "I might give you a treat when I return.". He pranced playfully to the door, one last acknowledgement towards his bound and helpless Adonis before locking him safely in his prison.


	39. Submission (part 2)

Powerful Arthur, who uses his force to dominate, tried hard to free himself, the bed was solid oak, even his most muscular contorts couldn't break the bonds or the bed, both remaining intact. He thrashed for a good hour with intensity, the gloriously oranges and reds through the window, ushering exhausted defeat. Arthur gazed upon the of sunset, its blistering colours confirming the dying of the day. Unlike any other, he suspected he might be watching his last; could his eyes witness its beauty ever again if John extinguished their love with his unhinged demands. The restraints cut against his skin, soft for compliance, rough for dissent, the surface of his wrists throbbed raw. He screamed, muffled by the bandana so expertly stuffed in, his tongue tried to force it out, but he stopped, couldn't risk John's punishment for his disobedience.

Resting back, trying to recover, his mind flashed with memories, the leering expressions of men from long ago, still visible and alive. His muscles tensed, he'd done it to himself, the pain and anguish of losing Eliza and Isaac, of Dutch's betrayal, it was what he deserved, to be tied up and used by nefarious perverts. How they used him, hours of unending torment, the memories sickened him to his core, not as much as the realisation that he permitted it, sought it out and encouraged it.

John returned to find Arthur where he left him, sweat glistened and glowing, his heaving chest rattling with broken breathes. His eyes full of terror, not for him, John couldn't believe himself capable of eliciting such a fractured gaze. Arthur was remembering, that is what he wanted, a sign he was suffering, he removed the gag, Arthur had to have his voice. He remained stoically quiet, this was the hardest Arthur to deal with, so distant, he was switching off to it all, not participating. John could not allow that to happen, couldn't lose him. John slid tenderly against his torso, sweeping his tousled hair from his eyes and kissed his nose delicately, playfully while he caressed his cheek.

"Were you a good boy while daddy was away?" John grinned at the salacious words of torture, remembering his own discomfort when Giorgio first requested daddy to be used. John wasn't as closed as Arthur, his mortification at such a sentence was palpable. Arthur recoiled in disgust, unable to look upon him, this wicked boy, not the boy he loved. John was twisted by evil, succumbed to the darkness and was now torturing him with all the repugnant acts that filled him with bile.

With the expectant revulsion written across his features, John thoughtfully considered his next steps. It was where he needed him; if John was going to achieve his ultimate goal, Arthur had to believe that_ his_ John was dead, no more innocence and purity. Released from his vow of servitude, of protection, Arthur wouldn't put himself in harm's way, sacrifice himself for everyone else. Arthur had to stop protecting John and start protecting himself. He delicately ran his palms down Arthur's face, his fingers splayed skilfully to ensure maximum contact. Arthur shuddered involuntarily at the sensation, warming and sensual was a welcome distraction to the ordeal imposed upon him by himself, thrashing with crazed wildness to no avail. John's palms reached the thick, muscular sides of his neck, slick with sweat, his Adam's apple bobbed with anticipation. John softly ran his thumb over it, feelings its response to his caress. The pressure grew slowly, almost unidentifiable until Arthur pierced the air with his repeated objection, a plea so guttural in its trauma, it was too late.

"John, no!" He gasped, trying to inhale sharp shallow breaths.

"Is this what they used to do to you, Arthur," John said coyly, increasing the pressure. "When they bound you, did they try and tame you." It was cruel, sadistic, John was even impressed by how imposing his control was. Tears began to form in Arthur's eyes, _they_, John thought it was _they_. In the dungeons they restricted his breathing multiple times, he didn't fight it, didn't thrash or beg, just endured. _They_ were not the hands that burnt his skin with horror, _they_ had not caused him untold anguish and hurt. _They_ were the ones who helped him to remember, to overcome and abide. John could see his submission and released him to breathe.

"Is this what you're into now," Arthur croaked. "It's a bit tame for my appetites." Challenging and defensive Arthur, two for one. John grinned; this ordeal might be over quicker than he thought. The next part was for them, or more importantly, for him, it would destroy Arthur at first and then take him to a world of pleasure. This couldn't all be torture, Arthur would shut down, go catatonic, another defence mechanism deployed to protect him. John placed kisses across his forehead, leaving his questions unanswered, he glided smoothly to the foot of the bed, Arthur's large feet were resting apart, revealing his valley of seduction. 

"Present to me," A merciless flicker of lust crossed John's features, it was provocative, unexpected the way Arthur winced and then firmly held his legs together, fighting again. John crawled onto the bed, tenderly rubbing his feet, reassuring him with soft noises of assurance.

"Arthur, this will be more enjoyable if you just submit," John was warm in his tone, encouraging Arthur that he was safe, safe to let go.

"I can't, John, it's too much," He didn't move purposefully but trembled uncontrollably, his eyes darted, trying to reconcile what John was doing to him; if John even knew what he was doing or was it just a game to him. Something fun and salacious when for Arthur it was everything buried so deep, he was terrified to let it go.

"It's not enough," John caressed along his thick naked thighs. "I need more." It wasn't the contact he wanted to give, Arthur was displaying signs of distress, he was walking a fine line, John had to give in order to take.

"Present to me, Arthur," He demanded again, waiting for his response.

"Not tied up," Arthur pleaded, begged, offered up deals, bartering Arthur, the rarest form of the man, he was becoming desperate. "We can fool around any way you want, not tied up." It confirmed to John he was progressing down the right track, Arthur still thought he had choices.

"Arthur," John remained patient, cocking an eyebrow in victory. A long drawn out, hiss escaped Arthur's lungs as he slowly lifted his legs, placing them tight against his chest. It was a security pose, rather than a presenting posture. John wanted him stretched, he conceded pushing now could take them back a few steps, too risky, too exhausting. It was growing darker outside, the night was crawling in. John naively assumed subduing Arthur would be a quicker process, that their love meant his defences would tumble faster. He was wrong, forgotten how many there were to begin with.

With his route partially cleared, not the cavernous valley full of hope he dreamed of in his sleep, it wasn't enough to work with, too closed. John would have to coax him willingly, appeal to his desire for touch. Seduce him, drive him open with eroticism. John licked the along the seam of his thigh, the hairless ridge, worn from the exertion of movement. Arthur let out a shaky gasp, his vulnerability growing, palpable. Words, conversations, hours of in-depth discussion, Arthur would give what he wanted and conceal the rest. Under John's touch, the real Arthur, insecure, scared and totally yielding would reveal himself. With that Arthur, he could endeavour, keep him in this state long enough and Arthur would be his. He raked his teeth across his inner thigh, a groan of filth filled the air, John forgot how unrestrained those sounds made him feel. Breaking Arthur was going to be an uphill struggle, John could so easily trip and tumble down into his own submission.

Arthur began to open, a flower blossoming in the warmth of the midday sun. His anxieties simmered along the surface of his flesh, cocooned in a vast array of protection, he still had the will to survive. His mind was alert to the dangers, his body utterly weak, craving flesh, touch and carnal passion. Spreading wider, his body begged, displaying lewd thrusts of want, communicating the words his mouth couldn't speak. He wanted John to take him once again. To pound relentlessly into his being until there was no way of separating them. John could sense it, the flicker of those eyes, imploring momentarily before rolling closed in defeat. It was too soon, yet his openness allowed him to follow his original route. His cheeks parted, revealing his valley of hope and beauty. He dipped between the valley walls; his tongue navigated up the river bed that rested between his muscular glutes. He tasted entirely of him, salty, sour and utterly intimate.

"John, no!" Arthur pulled tight against his restraints, thrashing his legs wildly, catapulting John from the bed and onto the floor with a thud.

"I should change my name, I can't, John no, then it's not an objection just my name." John beamed; his cock hard against his pants. He always imagined Arthur doing it to him, years of desiring made it manifest at this moment. It was perfect, Arthur had to submit to it. He returned to his position on the foot of the bed, kneading his bruised ass to reduce the soreness.

"Please, Arthur let me." He licked his tongue along Arthur's erect shaft, popping his head between his lips, a delicate chased kiss for an old friend. Arthur cried out, the unexpected sensation required continuation, John stopped and smirked, and waited

"I can't, John," he pleaded "Not that" His voice cowering with fear."... it's too... it's too shaming." Arthur closed his eyes tight, unable to gaze upon his tortuous lover, to witness that sultry expression, John had all the power.

"I will never shame you, Arthur." John declared earnestly "You will feel so good, I promise."

Arthur slowly parted his legs, guided by John's hands, both fervent for touch. John dipped again, a long lick, followed by pulsing probes against his puckered hole had him moaning in a tormented mess of want and shame. John pushed deeper; blissful pants of obscenities rolled from Arthur's lips as he succumbed to this new sensation. John pursued him, his vibrations, his taste, his mutterings, an orchestra of tantalising submission, captured forever in his memory until Arthur was begging him, pleading for him to fuck him.

Arthur was debauched, a mass of sweat and sinew when John emerged from his thighs. John traversed his quivering frame, delicately meandering to not add undue pressure to his stimulated body arriving at his full gasping lips.

"Trust me," He dived down deep; their lips joining in a hungry unadulterated kiss.

"Completely," Arthur confirmed through the kiss. He smiled, relaxed, heady and compliant. John kissed his cheek, needing to breathe, this was going to take all night.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Arthur whispered softly into his ear.

"I am not sharing you anymore." John rewarded him with honesty, as selfish as it sounded, he was done with allowing Arthur the freedom to choose. "I want all of you, all of the time."

"You can have me all of the time, don't need to restrain me," Arthur responded nuzzling sensitively against John's jaw. John rolled off the bed, disappointed, he thought they were there, but Arthur was still bartering for his freedom, stubborn old goat.

"They are staying on Arthur," John thought to check they were still firmly in place. The bonds were as he left them, Arthur's wrists were a different story. 

"And stop struggling, you're hurting yourself." John felt dizzy, a memory, those words, stop hurting yourself, they always hung there close in his mind, yet every time he reached for more, it would disappear into nothingness. Arthur would never admit the truth, never reveal what had taken place to elicit such a response from him. John tried to compose himself, a fact buried deeply was still inherent in every fibre of the man. Rearrange the threads of the tapestry and make them tell a different story, the real story.

"Yes, Sir," Arthur rumbled with laughter, making John wolfish, he thought this was a game, playful Arthur, it wasn't, it was life and death, the most important thing. If he could explain the importance to Arthur, he was sure he wouldn't laugh. To explain would be admitting the truth, he failed as a father, was unable to protect Rose, Arthur would take over, win her back, and the whole dance would start again. Arthur mad at John for failing, John angry at him for not being good enough, another list of grief and anguish that they cannot overcome. It all had to end, by his hand, he would protect his family, keep them safe and return them home where they belonged. To release Arthur now would relinquish the control back to him, that wasn't going to work.

With the bonds secure, John began to undress, eliciting a wolf whistle of encouragement from Arthur. John's flesh a mixture of tan and milk-white, subdued and taut by the glowing of the gas lights. Arthur relaxed, remembering the nights he spent with that body, entwined and obedient to him. It was always the same with John; he was an expert in seduction right until the moment he succumbed to love and adoration, then he was passive, submissive and all Arthur's. It is how their love worked, when one ebbed the other flowed, Arthur's dominance will be retrieved, there was nothing to suggest John wouldn't revert to type and become a gooey mess under him or on top of him, whichever way, John was a fool in love when it came to penetration.

John shook his head in defiance to Arthur's arrogant calls of lust, the damned fool was making this harder than it needed to be, the moistness pooled in his undergarments, a sign his control was weakening. He was taken by a wicked thought. If John emptied himself, using Arthur, not permitting him the same ecstasy of release, John could make him submit. He turned, determined to break him. A moment of shock crossed his lovers face, his eyes intense and brooding focused on a particular part of his body. Arthur hadn't seen his latest gun shot wound, still red and raw. His eyes instantly found it, saddened.

"Let me kiss it." He begged, shifting uncomfortably towards John, caring Arthur.

"Later," The bittersweet act of denial and promise made Arthur's lips tremble. John paused for a moment, assessing the request and the reaction. In all of this cruelty and badgering, there were specific acts Arthur couldn't deny himself. John pulled the pieces together in his mind, find the reasons, Arthur kisses his scars, a ritual, Arthur's healing lips required to work their way across his skin. Why? Guilt, an injury is Arthur failing, not protecting. The custom, an act of servitude, an apology, an admission of guilt, a projection of fear. John shuddered at the thought, he now knew how to break Arthur, to drive compliance, deny him his needs and provide him with fears.

"Arthur, I am going to place my cock in your mouth," John said firmly, like a physician about to operate, there was no desire in his request, no excitement at the thought.

"Yes," he gulped hard, preparing himself for the act. Trying to bring the passion back into the room for both of them. "I want to taste you."

He appeared confident if not a little breathless. It made John pause, He initially considered it was a trauma, similar to his own, a reason in his past that stopped him. In all their time together, or in the few times where they managed to be intimate with each other, John's cock had never passed Arthur's lips. Yet here he was encouraging the request, wishing to taste him. John thought to deny it, his craving for it too obvious, then he considered again, hiding his fears with bravado. How many times had Arthur confidently run into danger, acted strong and brave, only to fall apart afterwards, conflicted with fear and insecurity? His self-doubts, his apologies, tumbling out with the need to be better when he was always the best. John took a moment to process, this realisation, a new piece of Arthur, still there and perpetually witnessed, now he understood how to observe it in real-time, how to use it to his advantage.

He positioned his knees next to his head, wishing his large calloused hands were free to hold him. John was scared, it had to be done, but what if he didn't come back, his outlaw. Instead, he placed his hands on the wall towering above Arthur's head, his cock slapping languidly against his lips. 

John regained his composure, this was not about John's pleasure, it was about pushing Arthur past his limits, leaving him enslaved and obedient. John pushed his cock through his awaiting lips, for the first time, he groaned with satisfaction, the warming sensation of his saliva, his tongue lapping along his shaft as he pushed deeper. At that moment, he completely forgot that Arthur might need to breathe, he started to choke.

John withdrew quickly, this was about control, not about hurt. Arthur coughed, spluttered and eventually caught his breath. John was saddened, wanted to apologise to him, that would give the power back.

"I can do it better if I had my hands," Arthur said subtly.

"I know," John kissed his forehead, for the first time, he could sense the switch. Arthur wasn't trying to con him into releasing him, he wanted to be free to be better, a need to please. It made his stomach roll; this was a different Arthur, compelled to satisfy.

"I want to try again," Arthur begged, his puppy dog eyes exploding with need, to be rewarded. John stuttered a shaky breath, having considered this was the right thing to do, he failed to understand the impact it would have on himself. John was now the protector, afforded the role of dominance; he was duty-bound to keep Arthur safe. That was a gruelling thought; it was unimaginable, their roles reversed, Arthur's eagerness, his readiness to submit. Was this the man he loved or was he facing the realities, the real reason Arthur kept him safe all these years, he couldn't bear John seeing this side of him, the abused boy seeking approval.

John placed his cock once again in Arthur's mouth. This time his eyes fixed on his pooling blue irises. He allowed him to play, to bob his head along his shaft, it was enthralling, beautifully erotic. His hands bound, just his mouth, John wanted to float away on the sensation. It wasn't enough, Arthur was resilient to his core. John started to push, slowly at first, shallow thrusts designed to set a rhythm Arthur could follow. The friction was divine, the sweeping motion of his tongue against his shaft as he thrust in and out. Expert Arthur, good at everything. The promise was too great to deny, he didn't look away, watched with intensity as Arthur's eyes watered, drool running down his cheeks, he was a picture of depravity.

Arthur tried to enjoy the sensation of John rocking rhythmically in his mouth, this act, what he was doing had only ever been performed on one other man. He too possessed cruelty, a willingness to take and never give anything back. He was scared to close his eyes, to have the images of his haunted youth flash through his mind. Instead, he remained fixed on John, his John, the boy he raised into manhood and fell so tremendously in love with. He couldn't allow himself to think that John was intentionally cruel, that in some twist of fate, through age or absence, unconscious influences were conspiring to turn the son into the father. John, with every twist and turn, reminded him of Dutch, his fleeting moment of compassion and reassurance, concealing the violence and trauma mixed with a demanding need to chase his own pleasure. Arthur couldn't cope with that thought. To consider loving a man who could only take from him what little he had left to give.

Tears began to flow so readily from his eyes, John assumed the pressure of his thrusting, the lack of air was causing such an explosion of unmanageable and unwanted responses. Arthur's tolerance was edging closer to shattering, John chose not to warn him he was close, reassured that his man's suffering would soon be over. John growled into orgasm as he released into his mouth, coating his throat with his hot white spend.

They were paralysed for a moment, John, in his orgasm, Arthur in his torment. His cock eventually slipped out, leaving a sheen of glistening fluid on his chin. He stood not wishing to clumsily fall over Arthur's body, his legs were stiff, getting too old for his fluid movements. He jumped off the bed, landing backwards against Arthur's labouring chest. He crawled up and kissed his chin, licking the reminder of his spend from the scar he claimed as his own. Finally, rolling his head back onto his chest to enjoy his post-orgasmic glow.

"That was beautiful Arthur, thank you." He could be generous now in his praise, fulfilling a request entirely without argument or protest. He expected something in return, an acknowledgement of his excellent taste, astonishment for failing to warn. Instead, it was silence, unnerving and undesired. Arthur flinched, his breathing fractured by disgust, those words spoken to him so many times by his ungrateful and uncaring lover. John delicately rose from his comfort to talk to him to discuss the next steps. He gasped in horror, finding his stoic outlaw still in tears, not caused by friction or lack of breath, this was something else.

"Arthur." John's mouth was dry with fear. "Are you crying?" Arthur sniffed, tried to wipe his tears from his eyes, but the positions of his bound arms would not allow it. John obliged, grabbing his discarded bandana to remove the moisture and the residue of cum. It didn't stop his muffled sobs, full of angst, shame, crying Arthur witnessed once and once only during an invasion of his privacy.

"Was it good?" His voice stuttered through his sobs.

"Does it matter if it was good if it made you feel bad?" John responded gently in his challenge, condemned by his actions. Sensing that Arthur at his more fragile point. There is breaking someone for their own benefit, and there is shattering them beyond all repair.

"It matters to me," Arthur murmured, distant and lost. Always putting others first.

"Everything you chose to give me is always good," It was thoughtful, considered, right. John kissed his cheek, tenderly.

"I wanted to do it," Arthur quivered. John didn't believe him, couldn't trust him. There was such darkness in his soul, a potent mix of anger and hurt. What made Arthur do these things to himself? John was starting to place the final pieces of the puzzle. Enough divulged over the years that who Arthur was, what he was, finally making sense.

"If you wanted to do it, why are you bleeding?" John tugged at the restraints, they were tort and tense throughout, Arthur, channelling his rage and discomfort-into the unbreakable bonds, only hurt himself. 

Arthur studied his wrists, the blood meandering down his arms, he hurt himself rather than say no to a contemptuous lover. That was a learnt behaviour, delivered through years of conditioning, was that John's intention, to show him how wrong it was, but how would John know? He considered it for a moment, that word lover, appeared so perverse a term to use, John was his lover and loved him, sometimes too much. Dutch was not a lover; Dutch was his abuser. 

He started to cry again, this time, unrestrained, uncontrolled wails of complete devastation. John could take no more, loathed himself for putting Arthur through this torture, hated the world for taking his artistic soul and subjecting it to untold horrors. He manoeuvred himself into Arthur's lap, carefully removed the first restraint, he took a deep breath; there was no way of knowing which Arthur would be free. John would accept each and every one of them if it secured Arthur's safety. He unclasped the second restraint, Arthur with all his force shot up, wrapping his arms around John's torso, punching the air from his lungs, holding on for dear life in his lover's arms, trembling, an uncontrollable mess of snot and tears. John held him, held him in his childlike state of fear like he holds Rose when she has nightmares, Arthur was innocent, a boy scared and alone.

"It's ok" John cooed kissing his crown. "It's ok, I have got you."

"You don't understand," Arthur mumbled through his distress, trying to rebuild his walls, his defences that protected him for so long. That wasn't possible, John could see everything so clearly, he was annoyed for not seeing it sooner, all the signs were there.

"I understand more than you think," He rocked them gently in their sorrow, their bodies combined in loving union, lifting them from the depths of their despair. "We will always have each other, always love each other, forever, I promise." He coaxed Arthur out from the protection of his chest, his brow furrowed, eyes swollen, lips moistened, a picture of desperation. He kissed him cautiously tasting the salty-sweet elixir tantalisingly settled on his lips. He wouldn't take anymore from him, couldn't even if he wanted to, it was now for Arthur to learn how to ask.

"Make love to me" Arthur whimpered. Wresting his head forlornly of John's shoulder. John caressed the hair from his face and placed it behind his ear, Arthur needed this, more than anything he has ever needed, to be loved and cherished without question or expectation. It was the one request John had no intention of denying but couldn't currently deliver.

"There is nothing more I want to do more." John smiled, his doe eyes captivating Arthur's ocean blue's. "But I am not nineteen anymore."

Arthur choked a laugh, "Takes a while to rejuvenate?" Recapturing the words from his abuser and giving them meaning to his lover, that is how he will recover.

"Can I make love to you?" The innocence and fear made John tremble with sadness. John locked him in a desired and sensual kiss, guiding him carefully, slowly until Arthur hovered, shaking on top of him. They were emotionally spent had nothing more to give to each other that sweet, languid caresses and pure words of love.

John was blown away by how sensual Arthur could be as a lover, he was nurturing and considered. Arthur covered him with his body, slipping his fingers into his tightness, underused and a bit out or practice. John ground his hips in time with Arthur's stimulating caresses, his burgeoning arousal relaxing the muscle for more profound penetration. His voice a timbre of expletives and reassurance to Arthur's ownership of his body, "I am yours, every inch belongs to you." Arthur struggled with his own stamina, John spreading, supple and bucking, pressing himself into Arthur's touch. His dishevelled hair falling raggedly across the sharp angle of his face, as he cooed with moments of bliss from the seductive strokes, Arthur placed along his spot.

Incoherent, John murmured his own desperate plea, Arthur obliged, an eager flourish of movements, penetrating without delicacy. John writhed slightly, pleasure and pain mixed with a feeling of belonging. He flung his head back and succumbed to the sensation of that which had been missing for so long. Arthur pinned his hips tightly, bruising, they clashed violently in a crescendo of slapping skin and tight muscle. John thought he was going to rip in two with Arthur's unrelenting thrusts, punishments of sorts. Like their first time, Arthur needed reassurance, begged to hear his voice, not to ensure John was ok but to confirm he was ok. John happily provided it to him, in the unrelenting pace of being fucked hard and fast, with heat and urgency, unlike any other sensation, John deliriously managed to find the words Arthur needed to hear.

"You are beautiful, 

you are special, 

you belong with me, 

you are my world, 

you deserve to be loved, 

let me love you, " 

It was enough, for now, to be sated in the union of skin and supplicated to their loss of control. John inevitably fell first, a few times to be exact, his body was a vessel undone expertly by his lover's ferocity and his expert knowledge of everything that drove him to the brink of oblivion. Arthur hit the dizzying heights of ecstasy and collapsed in an enslaved heap of satisfied relief, the power, the wanting and denial released into waves of contentment and utter surrender.

John held him through it all, embracing his sensitive skin, soothing his exhausted mind until he felt safe enough to sleep. As the sun rose through the crack in the curtains an exhausted Arthur resting on his chest, John considered this might be the last time they would be together, the chances of them both surviving slim but at least one of them would have the memories to hold on to.


	40. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No armature psychology here :) just remember it's the 1890's (Although Thorndike was working on his ideas for operant conditioning) so this both well ahead of its time and completely inaccurate by todays standards It feels like Ghostbusters I have crossed the streams here people

The Previous Day:

John pushed against the ornate shop door, it was locked, he furiously slammed against the wooden frame, shaking the lettered glass, the mount rattled on its hinges, a candescent light emanated from the back room.

"Hold on, Hold on." The gruff and unimpressed voice of Theodore grumbled, his posture stiff and unyielding, a few more flakes of grey coloured his beard and hair, framing his sallow and sullen face. The keys chimed offbeat in his hand as he approached the shop door. His brow creased into a v shape as he realised his inpatient customer was the spirited and notoriously absent John Marston.

"John" Theodore exclaimed with a jolt of glee and foreboding. "What are you doing here?" His warm greeting was cut short by the skittish bounding movements of John, who commanded the door be shut as he paced around the shop, eyeballing the medicines. Like Theodore It had aged, the dust settled along with the cabinets that stood proud and tall wall to ceiling, the glass was misted with dew and cobwebs reached around. That was John's job, to maintain the dignity of the shop, one he left without a by or leave. Guilt was his natural setting, sat deep in his stomach, could he imagine one person who was glad to be around him, that leaned on him with trust, they would quickly find themselves on the floor.

"I need your help," It stuck in his throat to say it, this kind and generous man would gladly give him anything, when all John could do was take. Poor Theodore only got the pleasure of his company when he was in dire straits. "I need…. Arthur…Rose, do you have something……possibly."

"John, please you're making me nervous," Theodore responded trying to guide him into the back room, John continued to ramble incoherent, unconstructed sentences, bouncing from Rose to Arthur and needing something ill-defined and as yet unidentified.

"Stop talking," Theodore finally cracked. "What do you want, your behaving like a baby babbling nonsense, what do you need from me." He punctuated the last words to try and bring focus and clarity to John's wandering mind.

"The Pinkertons have kidnapped Rose, I am going to get her back." John proclaimed finally following Theodore into the back room.

"How do you suppose to do that." The equally greying and stiff Joseph said, perched on a stool drinking a cup of tea. John paused and then smiled, all his disjointed thoughts, displayed in erratic movements suddenly stilled, his plan had formed.

"Joseph, just the man," He pulled up the adjacent stool, previously Theodore's and began to explain his plot. It was met with gasps on intrigue, moments of silence and begrudging nods that as a plan it might not actually be doomed to fail.

"What role is Arthur playing in this?" Theodore asked still pondering the maddening ramblings from earlier on. Surely the outlaw who was precise and considered in cleaning his guns was the perfect confidant for such tricks and not two ageing, secluded doctors, who had never picked up a gun let alone shot one.

"No role," John confirmed. "If Arthur knew he would go in there all guns blazing rescue Rose and if he didn't die in the process, he would be hunted down by the Pinkertons until they did kill him."

"So, Arthur doesn't know?" Theodore raised a cautious eyebrow. John shook his head, reluctantly. Theodore and Joseph gave each other a quick glance, the kind couples who have been together far too long could only offer, exposing their uncertainty. Signalling to John he hadn't garnered their support yet, typically it was Arthur who was the stumbling block.

"He will find out eventually," Joseph anticipated, "I suspect all your fears will be realised."

"Not if I save him first," John hoped to be away with everything he needed, without having to divulge his strategy towards Arthur, it was personal, dark in its motivations, he couldn't risk the pair talking him out of it. Arthur was already too far into it, restrained and gagged on their bed. "If I stop that compulsion in him to save everyone else."

"How do you propose to do that?" Theodore's ire raised, his sardonic tone was a wealth of knowledge and John's lack of made him concerned how dangerous any plan to control Arthur could be.

"Our leader, Dutch, has always had a way with Arthur," John gesticulated wildly, dreading the revelations that his proposal was formed from observations of how Dutch treated Arthur, that he could ever dare himself to do the same. In times of bleakness and hardship, they should be pulling together, yet that had never worked, always drove them apart, John was compelled to try something else. "Dutch treats him like a dog, a puppy, unloved and scolded for the most minor infringements but rather than being angry or distrustful, Arthur is obedient." He took a deep breath, huffed and then softened, he had to tell them to secure their participation.

"If I can make him obedient to me, exert that power over him, he might heel," John trembled at his own words, disgust and bile sat in his throat that he could ever consider such insidious cruelty to the man he loved. Both his former mentors stared upon him, intensely and muted, one aghast with horror the other circumspect and considered.

"John, I am not sure that is possible," Joseph placed his cup down and put a firm hand on John's shoulder, to alleviate the shakes and prepare him for what he didn't want to hear. "Arthur is his own man, he will do what feels right to him and for him."

"No," Theodore interrupted. "He isn't his own man, if what John is saying is correct then there might be a way," The considered man, searched high and low, through stacks of disorganised papers and books, until discovering what he was looking for. The filing system hadn't improved since John left; if anything, John had kept it reasonably tidy in comparison.

"Theodore, you cannot be encouraging this," Joseph beckoned him to stop, encouragement of such a frail mind would only lead to madness or worse, they had to protect both John and Arthur. Theodore, in his act of helpfulness, was just exacerbating the situation.

"Not encouraging, this is perilous stuff almost alchemy, but John isn't wrong," Theodore lost in his journal flicked from page to page, muttering "There was mention of something in my recent journal, some such about learnt behaviour,"

"What are you wittering on about, Theodore," Joseph chastised. There were many things he held dear about this loveable man, his thirst for knowledge only quenched by his voracious appetite to read. Sometimes it would get him stuck on a subject, psychology being his favourite and there was little to do other than a nod or listen. They were both men of medicine, Joseph learnt long ago that was where the similarities end. Joseph enjoyed the pursuit of helping and healing, of giving life to that which most certainly would have been dead. Theodore did not care for life or death in those terms; if someone died, it was just apart of life, the overall experience. Theodore was far more observant to what people chose to do while alive, how they reached that choice and was there anything behind the eyes that could have got them to make a different choice, was decision hard-wired or could it be manipulated in another way. It was a dangerous cocktail that was brewing between the pair, John the experiment, or more aptly Arthur, Theodore the scientist set on observation. All Joseph could attempt to do was remind them that Arthur was a living human man, regardless of the choices he chose to make he had the right to make them, and only God should have the power to direct him. 

"If Arthur is rewarded for good behaviour and scorned for negative behaviour but is not clear when these rewards or chastisements will be given," Theodore read and summarised at the same time, John nodded unsure what he was being told. "He becomes more attuned, more needing of rewards, therefore more compliant to any request, they tested it on cats."

"Arthur is not a cat," Joseph interjected, his first scientific stand against this nonsense, "A test on an animal cannot be so readily committed to human, there were grave consequences for such a frivolous approach."

"He was a tiger when I left him" John jested, trying to lighten the mood, he was greeted with scornful faces this was no laughing matter.

"It sounds like your Mr Dutch has been using these techniques on Arthur for years, conditioning him into subservience, like a dog to its master," Theodore confirmed, slapping the journal shut. A tingling sensation covered John's arms, his hairs stood up at the confirmation that Dutch had been manipulating Arthur all these years, something that was evident but never the less unnerving to hear.

"But if this is new, how did Dutch know?" John questioned if the Science was only just available how did Dutch have the foresight to know how to implement it so successfully.

"This is proven science John," Theodore began one of his lectures, unlike when he was a boy, John listened diligently, enthralled by his mentor's command and knowledge. "Science is not creation; it is the observation of existence, measured and verified to prove it as fact." Theodore closed a hand around John's and captured his eyes in a gaze of understanding. "Your Mr Dutch was the observation, this Scientist, Thorndike is set on proving the fact." John's heart stopped beating for a second and then was quickly revived by Theodore's pretentious pacing, thinking, observing, deducing the possibilities.

"The problem you have got is Mr Dutch has had years of practice and years of influence. How long have you got?" He shot out the question at speed.

"Twelve hours, twenty-four at a push," John confirmed, spying Joseph for some much-needed support. The man was smoking his pipe, coddling his own nerves which were set with fear and concern for poor Arthur.

"Then you have an infinitesimal chance of success," Theodore wagged his finger ferociously. "Best case scenario nothing changes, worst case you Arthur is catatonic and never recovers."

"I prefer catatonic to dead; I have a nice swinging chair he can sit on" John tried to offer in the way of reason to proceed.

"How noble a sentiment if not completely naïve," Joseph groaned through his pipe. "I should get going to pack, destination Emerald Ranch," He relented, having agreed to go and act as a physician to the Pinkerton mob in the hope he could get close to Rose.

"Remember to not mention me by name," John stated, in all his musings on the plan, he hadn't said that point.

"Yes, John, I think I understand the basic principles of subterfuge," Joseph was making a poor effort and hiding his disdain. Not for the plan, or the opportunity to help. In truth the short amount of time John Marston had spent in their lives, they grew to love him, as near to a son they could ever hope for. With his brilliance came an edge of recklessness, Joseph did not wish to observe the damage, to Arthur, or even John, his heart would truly break if he lost Arthur by his own hand, how could he ever justify his actions to himself if that were to happen.

"And one last favour," John knew he was testing his patience.

"Yes," His laboured monosyllabic response was delivered with one final puff of his pipe, the acrid smoke enveloped them.

"Do you have a copy of Alice in Wonderland?" Joseph's bushy brows crawled like caterpillars up his forehead.

"We do in the study," Theodore interjected sensing his lover's tolerance was about to break, Joseph had always been seen as the calm one to his contemptuous personality. Joseph was calm when the world was safe and manageable, uncertainty made him stress, whereas uncertainty is where Theodore felt most alive. The mundanity of their lives was a sacrifice he made for the man he loved; he would gladly do it again. Yet at this moment with their prodigal son John, he had a chance to shine, and he was going to take it.

"Can you take it to her, it's her favourite book" John clarified, "and tell her I love her, and I am coming, just got stuck in Wonderland." Joseph warmed to the sentiment; those big brown eyes were so forlorn almost broken how could he deny him such a request.

"Don't take too long," Joseph placed a hand on John's shoulder in comfort, turned and kissed his eager lover.

"Stay safe, my love," Theodore caressed along his arm and then helped him to the door.

"Right, John," Theodore clapped his hands with fervent authority, relishing in the opportunity to depart some wisdom, for once he was the brain and Joseph the brawn. "The absence of time means you will have to increase the severity of the conditioning," He guided John back to the backroom, pouring them a cup of tea each.

"But remember John it can't all be negative reinforcement," He said blowing on the warm cup, "You risk losing him completely, you need to give him hope," John nodded accepting his advice, he could mix pleasure with pain. Still, it making sure it was the correct dose delivered at the right time.

"You also need to think about the impact on you," Theodore offered, there were two people in this experiment, both could be unduly impacted by the consequences. Theodore loved John enough not to want a moment more anguish in the boy's life, he couldn't resolve that for him all he could do was provide rational considerations. "You're not trying to heal him or help him; you are transferring his unhealthy relationship for this Mr Dutch, and you are placing it on your shoulders."

"In time I will set him free from it," John announced confidently, receiving a scowl from his mentor "It's only until we get Rose."

"It's not a light switch John, a mind is a complex machine, it doesn't unlearn that which has been taught," Theodore reasoned, John's plan was brilliant, his naivety was dangerous.

"What is your focus?" Theodore was clear of the theory unsure of the practicalities, "The conditioning, how will you go about it?"

"I would rather not say," John's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, it was one thing to reveal his strategy to tame Arthur it was quite another to explain how he was going to achieve it.

"You're not going to tease him into submission by your body alone," Theodore chastised him, understanding that the brutal act of male sex usually caused men to yield, "You might be young, but you are no Helen of Troy."

"No, not because I am so beautiful," John conceded, "Arthur can't say no, he has trauma, in his past, he has done some questionable things, I don't even know if I understand some of them." John ran his fingers through his bedraggled mop of black hair, trying to create a timeline in his head of all the things Arthur had done to himself over the years, no enlightenment or reason to why. The tragedies that befell him were not linked to his predilections, and yet he used them as an escape.

"I remember when he found out, I was..." John gulped, reliving his own past was not something he expected, "That way, I was still so young, and I think he wanted to protect me,"

Theodore sat patiently nursing his tea, young men with their predilections always had the most heart-breaking stories, the confusion, the angst the need for acceptance and to find someone, anyone who felt the same.

"Arthur said he dabbled a little when he was my age, I asked him if he was forced," John shook his head, remembering, "He said no, laughed even, then without hesitation admitted that it had happened to him a few times on his travels, that he had been raped."

"So, that is insignificant," Theodore responded to the anomaly, holding on to something, no matter how bleak, when the individual themselves didn't care a jot by the sounds of it, how was that going to make Arthur heel to his demands.

"No, it is significant, if he can treat such a horrid act so causally," John huffed, his trigger finger twitching with the thought of killing all those invisible men who hurt Arthur, took from him what was so precious, "Something darker and far more profound is lurking.

"Interesting hypothesis, John," Theodore smiled, although another man's rape was no smiling matter; it was the exciting way John deduced, his methodology. Arthur without realising, in his casualness and support for John had given away little pieces of the puzzle that made up who he was. If there was ever a mind so unfocused and chaotic as John Marston's, that could draw the pieces together again, Theodore smiled wider. John couldn't grin, he was too tormented by it all; if every night since Arthur left wasn't filled with nightmares and dreams of the past that didn't make sense, they were filled with his death, his corpse rotting, never to breathe or love again.

"If I can tap into that moment when he lost all value and sense of himself," John began to shake, sickened and fearful of what he was saying or planning to do to Arthur,

"You can build the path back to you and away from Dutch," Theodore was no good at comfort, that was Joseph's territory, but he found his arms wrapped around John, all the same, a little rigid and awkward but his boy needed to feel secure.

"How will you know what that moment was?" Theodore whispered, scared of the answer.

"I think I was there when it happened," John held on tight to his mentors embrace, "I have this reoccurring memory of Arthur bleeding, it feels so profound, but I have no context, nothing beyond the moment."

"That is your brain trying to protect you," Theodore tapped him on the shoulder, "In all of this, try and protect yourself too, for Joseph and me and little Rose."

The old man left him with his thoughts and the dregs of his now cold tea. John couldn't help but ponder that moment over and over, his voice raking and young calling out to Arthur on his cot, _why are you bleeding? _With no sense of the answer he decided there were plenty more events that Arthur had alluded to while they were together, horrors he could play on, he hoped for a confession from the stoic outlaw, a rinsing of the dirty laundry until they were clean. That wasn't Arthur's way, he would have to be pulled kicking and screaming.

"Here are the things you requested, bandages," Theodore placed them in John's hand "And this is deadly nightshade, very potent, very deadly with the wrong dose, two drops John and it should have the desired effect."

John accepted the items and began to depart, back to Arthur, he was probably a fitting torment of spit and bile because John had been gone longer than intended.

"John," Theodore called to him

"Yes, Theodore," He shifted by the door eager to leave and return to Arthur,

"That's my Arthur you have just sent to Emerald Ranch, make sure you put as much energy into protecting him as you do Rose and Arthur." It wasn't delivered as a threat or even much of a request, just a reminder that they all had something to lose on this little escapade,

"I promise" He nodded and left.


	41. The Calm

Arthur woke alone. The birds tweeting their uncoordinated chorus, a temperate chill, soothing, braced against his prickling skin. The warmth radiated from the space left by his absent lover; He languidly caressed the void trying to capture the essence of his heat. John had the sense to open the window before departing, the curtains billowed from the morning breeze. The day was milder, sweet relief from the burning heat that compelled them into wild and ravishing seduction the night before. His wrists throbbed, pulsating dully, not the sharpness expected. Upon investigation, he appreciated how deeply his sleep must have been, not stirring as John bandaged both concealing the ravaged injuries that lay underneath. Aftercare, perhaps John wasn't as incompetent in his chosen art form as he first thought.

Arthur revelled in a long drawn out stretch of his legs, the type that can only be achieved in a double bed, the clicks and aches prompting groans of satisfaction. It was settling, the security, the warmth, he was akin to Atlas on his day off, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. The only thing that could make this glorious morning perfection was the return of his commanding lover. Arthur was convinced it was his turn to demand a few indulgences. A luscious presumptuous grin, radiant and toothy, emanated from the satisfaction of the thought. If he were to require anything from his lover, it would be that tongue, pulsing and intense storming the thick tight muscle of his intimacy. Entirely trusting of John's promise never to shame, without shame, Arthur was free to indulge in the most amazing pleasurable experience, gripping tight against the sheets in waves of inexplicable and rolling passion. Reliving the moment in his mind his body craved and responded, tingling, acknowledging the addiction, filling with want and desire.

He could hear John's scratching tones, incoherent in the hallway. The door nob turned, struggled and turned again. There he was, bags under his eyes, hair wild, swagger laboured from exhaustion, he winced from the sharpness of the sting, Arthur had been a bit ruthless in his penetration, couldn't resist returning the favour. John placed a tray over his lap, eggs, bacon, black coffee and a small vase with a red carnation. It was so charming, sugary sweet and entirely necessary. Arthur stoked along John's arm in gratitude, receiving a tender kiss to his forehead and then dived into his breakfast.

"Wait for me" John whined as he ran around the bed, limping slightly.

"Get your own," Arthur was a machine, food his lubricant, all his mechanisms were worked hard last night there was no room for sharing.

"How have you eaten all the bacon, already!" John disappointed, took a scoop of eggs to sate his own hunger.

"I am a growing boy," Arthur mocked, John had ushered a change, a childlike sense of nurture and care that allowed Arthur to revel securely.

"In all the wrong places," John squeezed his love handle. A squirm of tenderness jolted through his body; John's talons were hooked deep last night as they writhed in their union, leaving them tender with welts. John asked for double portions on the one plate, unconfident in his ability to carry two, it was undecided who was ruined most by last nights adventure. The weakness in his muscles, his lower back, had him dreading the slow ride back to camp. He was too stiff to consider descending the stairs for more. Arthur always got the lions share, might have been acceptable when John was a boy, but his muscles required fuel too.

"They are drawing a bath in my room," John said as he chewed on his eggs.

"Naw, you would make someone a lovely wife one day," Arthur was smitten with his attentive lover, taking care of him like a prince, but his nature couldn't stop the ridicule. John didn't rise to it, years of practice; instead, he moved the tray from his lap and curled up along his side. His supple bed warmed heat lulled him back into a restful slumber. Arthur, in tranquil, contented harmony wrapped his arms around his dosing lover and watched in joy as the gentle rasps of love induced sleep took John into his dreams. He hoped to be there in his fantasy, as calm and satisfied as he was now. Arthur studied every movement and twitch, trying to decipher what antics the doe and the wolf got up to when they were free to roam, unchallenged and unmanageable. A knock on the door broke the moment, a young woman, a dishevelled knot of blonde hair and sparrow eyes pinched her towards him.

"Sorry for distributing you, your bath is ready," Arthur smiled, time had a funny way of repeating on itself, he was glad John remained asleep. Another Beth, another Mary-Beth, Clara unresolved, for a man with no interest in women John had a type, and this young woman was definitely it.

"Thank you, miss," Arthur responded, almost laughing at the absurdity of his growing jealousy towards this woman, and her imaginary liaison with his man. She closed the door behind her, and in their solitude and sanctuary, he ran his fingers through his greasy black mop of hair.

"Wake up my darling, its bath time," John lips curled and then groaned in faux annoyance.

"It's your bath, not mine." He rolled his head around to hide and return to his sleep.

"If I need a bath, you definitely need one," Arthur ran his nose along his collar, he smelled of pine and sweat and the musky headedness of their lovemaking. To wash that away would be devastating but the gang wouldn't appreciate such an odour. Arthur empowered with a bold and brave new demeanour gifted to him by John's worship allowed him to stiffly walk naked from his room to into the corridor, only his gambler positioned over his most private parts. The working girls of the saloon whistled excitably, as the Adonis cowboy confidently strutted down the hallway and into John's bedroom. The bath, hot and soapy wrapped around his muscles and let him drift into a state a relaxation he yearned for, he always loved his baths. An expectant knock, made him caw with laughter. No more special baths, Arthur was formerly a one-man man, there was no going back, not after last night.

"No, thank you," He called out before the question asked.

"Mr Morgan, you are breaking a young man's heart" The gleeful squeak of John permeated through the door. It opened slowly, his long leg wrapping seductively around the frame as his head tipped forward in an alluring pose.

"Get in here you idiot," Arthur growled at the absurdity of his less than erotic prancing. John sauntered shakily into the room, wrecked, utterly undone, he was fronting it, pretending for Arthur's sake.

"Which end?" John asked bashfully, having never done this before for Arthur,

"There ain't enough room for both of us John, you can wait," Arthur scolded him admits his chuckles of amusement.

"Not that" John corrected, "Which end do you want me to wash, head or body?" John's eyebrows rose provocatively, hoping the answer was not the head. Since he was a boy Arthur always helped him to wash, mainly his wild matted hair, it was a bonding experience for them until John decided he was too old for the help.

"Oh," Arthur hesitated, his jaw stiffened slightly, it wasn't necessarily an unusual request, he always got girls in to help him bathe. This was different, intimate, allowing John to help.

"Which end do you want?" John struggled, a shy smile rose from the corners of his lips, followed by the pinch blushed cheeks of embarrassment. The air filled with a surrealness, not uncomfortable or even disconcerting, just different. A barrier, once invisible to both of them had been broken last night. While the brutal nature of his actions sat wearily in his heart, the results were profoundly pleasing, Arthur allowing himself to be cared for, without grumbling or sarcasm. John wondered if Arthur felt the contrast too, to ask could risk shattering the illusion and take them back to where they had always been, Arthur the protector, John his ward. He grabbed the soap enthusiastically determined not to ponder too long on his thoughts, his man needed to be cleaned.

Arthur smelled divine, honeysuckle and lavender, all John wanted to do was wrap himself up in those strong arms and inhale the aroma. It took an inordinate amount of time to achieve, Arthur's lips kept finding his in slow longing, languid kisses. The time for such tender acts of surrender had passed, they needed to get on, back to camp and back to save Rose.

"Do you want me to help you wash?" Arthur grinned, imagining returning the favour of John's own wandering hands,

"No" John responded with a despondent huff of air, "I want to stop by and see Theodore and Joseph before we leave and then we need to get back to camp, just get yourself ready, I will be quick."

"There is no rush, we can spend another night here if you want, catch-up with them properly?" Arthur offered, hoping the answer would be yes, his heart fluttered with the thought of another night between the sheets with John. He was yearning for closeness, an unfamiliar sensation, not love, he always loved John, but now the thought of being only a room away piqued his anxiety.

"No, Dutch will raise holy-hell if we are gone too long," John reasoned, "Besides I got wind of a job last night, sounds like a good take if we move fast."

"Ok," Arthur nodded reluctantly, John was acting shifty again, "You know all those things I said about you pulling your weight if you wanted to stay, I didn't mean them, your place will always be by my side,"

John shot his eyes away from Arthur, choking on the sentiment of his words, "It's just a job Arthur, ain't nothing to do with me trying to prove myself,"

"Alright," Arthur studied him for a moment longer, "I'll be next door if you need me," Arthur picked up his gambler, placing it on his wet hair. He closed the bathroom door behind him, providing John privacy, lingering in a bath towel Arthur was unsure what was going on, his naturally attuned senses were completely off, John had done that to him, made him feel safe. Arthur listened against the door, hearing the splashing of John's body lowering into the tub, then a stifled gasp and sob, John was crying. Arthur returned to his room with an immense sense of trepidation, fear that in his moment of final submission perhaps John realised he wasn't worth loving after all. Arthur gasped for air, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable, while last night was everything to Arthur, it felt like John was having doubts. Not visibly, he was doing everything in his power to reassure Arthur, behind those eyes sat reluctance. Arthur had witnessed it too many times, John was getting ready to run, to leave him.


	42. Conditioning

The sky was grey, threating rain, the cold chill in the air juxtaposed against their heated liaison yesterday. Arthur and John stood at a distance, dipping slightly in a mindless distraction to usher in closeness only to check themselves and reinforce the gap. The horses were stabled on the other side of town, they decided to walk the avenues to Theodore and Josephs shops.

Arthur was prying attempting to elicit some sense from John whether he was excited the two men once again, his protectors when he last left Arthur. John mumbled, all too aware that only Theodore would be there, Joseph already engaged in his mission, the plan that didn't involve Arthur. His dubious monotone responses, designed to deflect, sent shivers up Arthur's spine. It made sense; if he wanted to run, where would he go other than to the two men that took him in last time. No more Giorgio to hide behind, Arthur made sure of that, all that was left in John's world were the two Gentleman who he was insistent on visiting.

"Hello Theodore," John hovered in the doorway, blocking Arthur's entry. "Its good to see you after so long,"

"John Marston, how are you, it has been a while?" The distinct voice of Theodore called out to John, while his words spoken spoke of distance from the inflects Arthur suspected the man had already been visited, perhaps the missing hour from last night.

"Yes, for once it's a social visit" John finally moved from the doorway, allowing Arthur entry. He raked his eyes across John, trying to read what was going on, clearly more than what he was being led to believe

"Oh, Arthur as well, I am honoured" Arthur shot his gaze to Theodore and found the warm greeting face of the slightly older man, his greyness coloured pink suggesting an earnest and heartfelt enjoyment to Arthur's presence. It made him pause, perhaps he was reading this wrong, John sent him haywire, his world upside down, leaving him with little sense of what used to come so naturally.

"Hello again, sir" Arthur offered his hand and was surprised to receive and embrace.

"You are both looking well, beaming" Theodore chimed, "I am just sorry Joseph isn't here to see you both." Theodore withdrew from Arthur and did the same to John, their hug was longing, John held on for seconds longer than would be deemed socially acceptable, his fingers clenching the man's shirt tightly, the older man didn't react. "He is up-state on some mercy mission, you know Joseph has to save all the lost souls."

"How are you feeling, Arthur?" His loving gaze returned to Arthur, which felt strange, why would a man he only met once care to how he was feeling over the man he supported and raised for a time?

"Very well thank you" Arthur responded for propriety,

"What happened to your wrists?" Theodore motioned to the bandages that peeked under his shirt, barely visible. His eyes narrowed slightly at the hawkeyed identification of his injuries, he scanned John he was blushing sheepishly, remembering how he came by the wounds.

"Is nothing, just got a bit over-enthusiastic in a debate with someone," Arthur rolled his eyes and nodded his head surreptitiously towards his red-faced maiden.

"Oh," Theodore chuckled, "Too be young again,"

"Arthur," John interrupted their mocking glances, "Could you got to the store, I am out of smokes."

"I should have enough to get us back to camp" Arthur responded pulling a full pack from his satchel,

"We might not have chance to get back out before the job," Arthur thought for a moment, the job, John had mentioned it, sounded big, he should have tried to pull more information out of his rather than worrying about his potential flit. He shook his head at his own absentmindedness, he was out of sorts, needed to get his focus back. Should be paying attention to what was actually happening instead of the fairy tales in his head.

"Ok, I'll wait by the horses for you, Theodore always a pleasure," Arthur shook his hand and left to do his chore for John. He was grateful for the excuse to leave, he couldn't cope with the suspicion, John wasn't trying to leave him, it was his own insecurities, let it go and get on.

"You to Arthur, you always welcome, anytime with or without John, there is always a place for you" His heart spiked with a thousand daggers at those words, he was leaving, wasn't go to stay even with Theodore or Joseph,

"Why is John planning on going anywhere?" Arthur chuckled awkwardly, trying to act relaxed when he was anything but, what the hell was going on.

"Certainly, hope not," Theodore creased tying to supply levity to the profound tension building, "But you know these ranch types can tear themselves away to visit their weary and old mentors."

"Whereas outlaws are notoriously always on vacation," Arthur said sarcastically not buying whatever the pair were trying to sell, something was definitely rotten in Denmark.

"There is that wit I remember, you haven't changed Arthur" Theodore was skating on the thinnest of ice. Arthur's jaw tightened, shook his head in pensive acknowledgement that his presence wasn't as welcome as he thought. Arthur left to complete the chores that were just a rouse to get rid of him. John and Theodore watched as he departed down the street, the younger, turned the sign at the door and locked the door to customers.

"Come through, John" Theodore ushered him through to the back. "What's wrong?"

"I am scared" John confessed, allowing his skittish nerves to vibrate through his body, he was holding in his concerns, concealing them from Arthur.

"He appears fine" Theodore reassured, pouring them both a cup of tea.

"He is so compliant, supple, not grumpy, not sarcastic, he hasn't shouted at me once" John tried to rationalise his concerns, Arthur was quiet. At the same time, he was used to sensing seething rage under the skin, that was absent, his outlaw disappeared.

"John, I need to get some tips from you," Theodore was not concerned, he couldn't sense any difference, "I wish I could have the same effect on Joseph."

"What if he doesn't come back," John spoke his truth, the underlying fear, this Arthur, complaint and unsure was not his Arthur, he needed the older man's bark and sometimes his bite.

"Why would you want sarcastic, grumpy shouting Arthur back?" Theodore found it novel that it was the cantankerous side of Arthur's personality that John appeared to crave the most.

"I don't know who I am if Arthur isn't shouting at me, being sarcastic" John began to shake uncontrollably,

"You knew it was a risk, that it would impact you as well as him" Theodore embraced the young outlaw, rancher, prodigal son, cooing in his ear in an attempt to relax him. His plan was working going in the right direction, its success should be celebrated but how much of its execution would remove the essence of John, take parts of Arthur and leave them devoid of what they once had. The unforeseen circumstances of such a plan were always going to reveal pain.

"I think you are presumptuous, he might just be happy," Theodore tried to alleviate the concern in John, a temporary fix for an emerging broader issue "I am sure a day with you will knock that out of him, he will be back to the miserable curmudgeon we all know and love"

"Remember you have Rose to save" Theodore laboured the point, there was a reason for all this. A precious young lady with golden spun hair and deep blue eyes, she needed protecting, along with Arthur, and that was John's responsibility.

He left Theodore, meandering throw the cloying streets of St Denis, he missed the hustle and bustle, when life felt simpler. At the time it didn't, it was full of intolerable sadness spending time away from Arthur. If he knew then that Arthur's company came at a price, potentially their lives, he would have savoured the absence longer, in the knowledge Arthur was safe.

"Ready" Arthur was leaning against the wall, smoking, waiting aloof for John's return. So many times, he found him in that position, a stalking killer waiting for his role to be confirmed. Arthur was an outlaw, it was in his bones, John was naive for thinking he could ever control the fabric of the man. Yet the journey had begun, there was no going back.

"Yeah," John said reluctantly, he seated himself in Jezebel ready for the trek back to camp. They moved slowly through the city, the scenery changed gradually the brick and stone gave way to wide-open vistas of the countryside before they thought to speak.

"What's this job?" Arthur asked

"The ranch house at Emerald ranch, there have been some strange goings-on, the Rancher used to run it for gambling, made a pretty penny," John scratched the back of his head, which made Arthur nervous, "Now it's all locked up, guarded but no mention of where the money went."

"How do you know about this?" Arthur always needed the full context to any job, too many ill-planned ventures got them in a mess over the years. The reasons continually came back to poor planning and unreliable sources.

"Well us ranchers are known for are gossip," John actually chuckled at the admission, a sense of lightness crossing his face, "I ran into a man who used to be in my employment, he came east was working there for the summer, left because it was too weird."

"You can't be sure there is money there, it sounds risky" A usual and telling response that Arthur was concerned but would relent to the inevitable.

"When has anything we have done not been risky" John shot back, unwilling to listen to his reasoning,

"True, I will take it to Dutch," Arthur gave in now enjoying the scolding from his lover, his skin prickled, if he could keep John happy, he wouldn't leave, "If it goes south I don't want you getting the blame."

"We both take it to Dutch Arthur, together," John yelled angrily,

"I am not trying to take the credit," Arthur whined, "I am just trying to protect you."

"Yes, Arthur I know," John took a heavy breath, conditioning, this is where John had to be consistent, "I am not worried about the credit, and I don't need protection, do I?"

"No, sorry, habit" Arthur dipped his head, his gambler casting a shadow across his sullen face. It pained John that he was responsible for such a heart-breaking response, poor Arthur, insecure and scared. It wasn't enough, John had to be crueller, "Next time you feel like protecting me just remember you are generally the only person I need protecting from."

John kicked Jezebel and rode off ahead of Arthur, unable to witness the response to his malevolent abuse of Arthur. He couldn't forgive himself for doing this, for taking Arthur's abuse and using it to get what he wants, isn't that what everyone in Arthur's life had done to him, manipulated him, broken him until he was compliant and loyal. Arthur didn't follow closely, sensing any intervention would speed up the process of John leaving him, if he tried to make him happy, did everything he requested without question or sarcasm John might stay and love him.

"Yes, John, I am sorry" He whispered, rubbing a solitary tear from his eye.


	43. Camp

Camp life was calm, jovial, a weight lifting, a tentative truce appeared to rest between the two brothers, their trip to St Denis was a tonic to their war. The absence of the Pinkertons oppressive pursuit provided much-needed air to breathe, and everyone relaxed a little. Micah had yet to return from his secret mission which reassured Dutch the pretender was chasing shadows. His two sons back together were nothing but clowns in love, how they always had been, neither possessed the fortitude or ingenuity to outwit him, they were his creations, after all, his proudest achievements, two dogs brought to heel.

Others more observant than Dutch saw differently; Mary-Beth and Charles had taken to monitoring the pair. Their tones were hushed, touches slight, whatever happened in St Denis, the angst-ridden brothers that departed were not the couple that returned, they were noticeably different. Arthur was a strange creature in general, he would never deny a request, yet it would be considered and grumbled over, he made sure everyone knew he wasn't happy, even when he was. Now, with John, there wasn't even a need for a request, Arthur appeared attuned to John's needs, more attuned than John to his own, his whole world suddenly seemed to revolve around making John happy. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, in and of itself, just peculiar to witness.

Mornings in the camp were always cold and damp wet, the rising heat of the morning sun sprung life into their weary bones enough to seek out the aroma of the coffee pot, while the breakfast stew cooked. It was a pretty simple affair, generally what was left over the night before with a can of beans added for bulk.

"Ladies," Arthur nodded his gambler towards Susan and Mary-Beth who were busy nattering about plans for the day, it was an inconsequential conversation until Arthur arrived. His step was jaunty, almost springy, he licked a smile that only lived in his most drunkenly silly moments, yet he was sober. He knelt and checked the strew, their eyes didn't leave him, studying this unusual specimen who had hijacked the stoic and grumpy outlaw.

"No double portions Arthur, that has to feed the whole of camp," Susan scorned as he filled a second plate of stew.

"It's not for me, its John's," Arthur said cockily,

"Mr Marston incapable of getting his own breakfast," Susan countered, rolling her eyes at the dote. John used to be intolerably lazy, since his return, he showed himself to be a helpful, capable young man, trust Arthur to try and turn him back into his boyhood tendencies. Arthur didn't respond, hurried back to his tent with their breakfast.

"They are behaving rather strangely," Mary-Beth offered in the way of an assessment.

"They were never what I would call normal Mary-Beth," Susan squawked, "But they are behaving suspiciously, Dutch might not notice these things, I have known that pair too long,"

"Should I talk to them, try and find out what is going on," Mary-Beth said innocently, hoping for the older woman's encouragement.

"Leave it to us, dear," Susan spilt out the last of her weak coffee, the acrid taste too unpalatable, "Years of practice, can sniff out their lying quicker than a hound searching for a slave,"

Mary-Beth watched scornfully as Susan began her day, she assumed to have the make on Arthur and John, there were so many things she didn't have the foggiest inclination of. While Mary-Beth respected Arthur's decision to keep the truth from his family, to protect them, it didn't mean she could watch as he loyally ran around after John, without understanding why? She bided her time, waiting as John and Arthur separated to undertake their chores, John was diligent, burying himself in his work. Arthur, on the other hand, was absent-minded, each move a longing glance over to the other, unable to tear his eyes away long enough to complete a task. His expressions changed violently, forlorn longing, broken reticence, glimmers of a smile and smirk only to turn into scowls and pain. It was hard to read what was going on in that head of his, the only certainty she could garner, it wasn't Arthur.

"Arthur," Mary-Beth whispered as she approached, "Can I speak to you,"

"Sure Mary-Beth what can I do for you?" His gaze captured hers and then darted immediately back to John, what was he worried about? The man wasn't a mirage, prone to disappearing in a puff of smoke.

"Not here," Mary-Beth put her hand out and ushered him towards the woods beyond camp, she needed to break his line of sight to John to get his full attention.

"What's wrong Mary-Beth," Arthur cawed with concern, "Is it you and Charles?" his mind was too full of John to think on any of the possibilities that could be wrong with his young ward.

"No, Arthur, it's you?" She said calmly, "You are not acting yourself, and I wanted to check you are alright,"

"M'fine Mary-Beth" He scratched the nape of his neck, a sign he was lying.

"Do you want to try answering that again, either with a bit more conviction or at least an acknowledgement of who you are talking to," She clasped her hands tightly. Private chats with Arthur usually led to severe and painful revelations, she was preparing herself, building her strength ready for him to emotionally fall apart.

"It nothing Mary-Beth," His eyes rolled grey, he was shutting himself down.

"Did something happen between you and John," She captured his gaze and moved forward, closing the space, "You can talk to me about it,"

"Nothing bad happened, we talked, got a lot of our chests," Arthur took a few paces back, coiling like a viper ready to strike, Mary-Beth was edging closer to his nest, and he wasn't prepared for it.

"That's good, Arthur, I am glad" Her smile was weak as she trod carefully closer to him, "Does he know about Dutch?"

"No!" Arthur shouted a little too loudly, "That's the past. Why would I tell him?"

"He has a right to know Arthur," Mary-Beth frowned, scolding him, remembering the snivelling wreck John was after their last fight, she almost told him, but Charles interrupted. "Even if you are no longer in a relationship, surely explaining why it ended, helping him to understand will help heal the wounds for both of you."

A flash of indistinguishable grief crossed Arthur's face, suppressed, not quick enough for Mary-Beth not to interpret it. For all his stoic resolve, grumpy demeanour it wasn't hard to read what was in his heart, just had to know where to look and enact unquestionably the tactics to make him speak.

"Arthur, no, you can't…" she trailed off, her hands placed firmly on her hips. They were clearly indulging each other again, that explained the weirdness. "You can't cope with another broken heart,"

"He won't, I trust him," His voice whined, full of pleading desperation.

"It isn't about him, it's you, how will it be any different to last time…." She took a stuttered breath, unable to subject herself to the torment, a broken Arthur took months to heal, hurt everyone in his own way. The morose depression that descended over the camp when Arthur was pining was unlike anything she ever experienced, Arthur had such power without even realising it, he was so loved that when he hurt everyone else felt it.

"I am different, I promise, I am ready this time," nothing she witnessed in the time since John returned suggested anything had changed, it felt worse, more dangerous. There was an undercurrent of despair written across both of them, they were setting themselves up to fail, and she considered they both had an awareness of it. Mary-Beth stilled, deciding to change direction,

"If you trust him why are you trying so hard to please him," She stepped forward, grabbing hold of his arms, ready for the explosion that would come from her next words but she was convinced they needed to be spoken, "You are running around like a dog, doing everything for him, not taking your eyes off him, you are scared, you are watching him like you used to watch Dutch,"

Bile shot into his throat, his stomach somersaulted from the insinuation, "You're wrong" he mumbled in a broken gasp. Falling back against a tree, trying to support his bulk as his legs were swiped from under him.

"You can lie to yourself all you want," She stiffened, determined to land her observations, "I can see with my own eyes Arthur, whatever is going on isn't right." A snap of twig alerted them to his presence, John was standing on the brow of the hill in full view, it was unclear how much hear heard or understood,

"What's going on here, secret liaisons in the woods," He called down to them, descended lighter than air, but his pursed cupid bow lips and his wolfish glare was enough to confirm that he wasn't in the mood to buy anything they were trying to sell.

"I will leave you to talk," Mary-Beth placed her hand on Arthur's shoulder, scowled at John as she gathered up her skirts and started the ascent back to camp,

"What's her problem," John watched as the silhouette of Mary-Beth disappeared along the tree line,

"Nothing," they both said in unison, John smiled, raking his eyes of Arthur who appeared ready to throw up his breakfast.

"Come on, Arthur, this is me, you can tell me anything," John swept Arthur's locks behind his ear and massaged his neck, attempting to calm the staggering stag.

"She just telling me to be careful," Arthur grumbled, John could read that Arthur was uncomfortable, Mary-Beth had obviously said more than that, whatever she did say it rattled Arthur. John could sense he was in risky territory; if Arthur was given enough time to think on what Mary-Beth had said all his careful plans could go up in smoke. John needed to take his thoughts from him, fill his head with nothing but John, he stalked Arthur backwards until he was pinned against the tree, their bodies mere inches apart, enough to sense the building heat.

John withdrew his hand from Arthur's neck and snaked it down his chest, eliciting a stuttered grown. It was enough to confirm Arthur was still compliant, yet a reward was definitely required to secure the invisible bonds John had placed around him. John ran his tongue across his dried lips, moistening them, then plunged against Arthur's red-hot neck, kissing softly at first, moaning proactive sighs of want as he started to suck and bite. Arthur's hands found his shirt and tightened into fists as he allowed himself to succumb to John's lips. Allowed him a moment of escape under his lover's tender touch, his blood burned as his member throbbed expectantly. John could feel the growing bulge, it required his attention, he grazed his knuckles across the clothed monster waiting for release before navigating his hand into Arthur's trousers.

"Stop John," Arthur cried out, John didn't heed the warning and continued down,

"I said Stop," Arthur pushed John with enough force he landed on his ass.

"What's wrong?" John's mind was obliterated by his reaction, Arthur never rejected his advances, not when they were already in the realms of physical.

"Just, not in the mood," Arthur reached over and offered a hand to help him up,

"Do you not want me anymore?" John quaked fearfully, how could he save Rose if Arthur wasn't compliant.

"No," Arthur grimaced as he pulled John's weight up, "It's not you, I promise, I love you, John."

"Then what is it Arthur, what's gotten into you because I can't do hot and cold, not again, you either want this or you don't." The words burned his skin, that was his fear, John leaving and he was making that fear a reality, his hot and cold, smothering attentiveness one moment and pushing him away the next. How could John cope with such a love, the poison was seeping in again, and Arthur had no way of stopping it, he was the poison. Mary-Beth was right, nothing had changed, it was precisely the same as it always had been. He took a deep breath, was ready, John had to know what broke them. Arthur turned, was greeted with full fearful doe eyes, a grimace of concern, it was like John morphed into his twelve-year-old self, a small, scared waif that needed protecting, he couldn't do it.

"It's the anniversary," Arthur said despondent, it always came around every year, sent him haywire. John coming back had him all sorts of confused that he hadn't noticed, not until he picked up Hosea's paper left carelessly lying around, saw the date. He didn't have time to process the significance until Mary-Beth was on him, probing about his behaviour and John, it was not the time to drag up such memories, they were the wrong ones.

"Isaac and Eliza," John offered, he assumed, never really got any grasp on when the tragedy befell him, it was talked of so little.

"No," Arthur corrected him, his throat bobbed, fighting back the tears, "Annabelle."

John took a moment to study Arthur, Annabelle, it still affected Arthur after all these years. Another death that was never discussed after the grieving ended. John couldn't even recall much of the day, another experience he lived through suppressed by fear, his mind blocking any thoughts, as Theodore said protecting himself. John bit on his fist, trying to conceal the yelp of pain that unexpectantly ripped through his throat.

"Are you ok?" Arthur's nurturing mode kicked in, he tried to hug John, but the younger stepped away,

"I just need a moment," John quivered, "I will see you back at camp,"

"Ok" Arthur watched perplexed as John ran from him, it felt inevitable, he was losing John again, there was too much in their past and history to make the torment go away.

The day rolled on, no sign of John, Arthur thought to go looking for him, something about the memory of Annabelle's death triggered a guttural reaction in the man. Arthur dismissed it, he made damn sure over the years that John couldn't remember anything of that day or the proceeding day, it was more than probable that John was merely kicking himself for not remembering. Instead, Arthur compelled himself with what little stoicism he had left to approach Dutch about the job in Emerald Ranch, it took some convincing, Arthur weak on details had to allude to it being John's con. However, Arthur did convince their leader that he had met the guy that had provided the tip, he was believable enough, this was definitely their job together.

"We will wait until Micah gets back and go and scout it out," Dutch finally relented,

"Go and scout what out?" The shadow of Micah filled the tent,

"Like a bad penny, he doesn't stay lost for long," Arthur chucked at the rats impeccable timing,

"Like a loyal dog, he can only bark, until his master tells him to bite," Micah spat back,

"Gentlemen," Dutch intervened, it was becoming an undesirable habit, "Arthur was just bringing me information about a job, as you are back you can join us tomorrow while we scout it out." Dutch motioned for Micah to enter.

"That so," Micah nodded, "Why don't you run along like a good boy Arthur, let the grown-ups talk through the details,"

Arthur shook his head and smirked and the brown-nosing face of Micah, he was welcome to the job of Dutch's pet, he had no will or inclination to fight for that role. Whatever plan they concocted between them, it was bound to be foolish and ill-advised, but Arthur would be there with John by his side, back to outlawing what they were always destined to do.

"Is this job at Emerald ranch by any chance," Micah smirked,

"Yes, how do you know?" Dutch asked confused, Micah closed the tent doors and began to enlighten his leader on what he had found on his travels.

"Arthur," Hosea called to him, "Thought it would be nice to have a family get together, it being the anniversary."

"I ain't in the mood for reminiscing Hosea," Arthur turned to his father, focussed his sad eyes on his,

"I am sorry son, it slipped my mind," Hosea rattled at the memory, "If you want to join us you can, I think Dutch will need the option, he's always on edge lately, would be good to remind him of old times, that he is loved."

"Maybe," Arthur huffed and returned to his cot, choosing to sleep the rest of this godawful day away.

John returned late into the evening, the shaking in his bones lessened from the shock became the cold working their way in. There was a subdued silence in the camp, voices were hushed and calm, talking around the fire. He could sense it was a camp event, to remember Annabelle, hell half of them weren't even there, didn't know the woman, let alone could speak memories of her. John could see Arthur was missing, was torn, to find him and have it out or join the family.

He grabbed a beer from the crate and swayed casually into the fray, there were unanswered questions in his mind, now clear as a summers day. It wasn't Arthur's job to answer them, wouldn't even if he could, if John was going to complete the puzzle then the last piece lay in the hands of those he once loved as his family, even if they were yet to realise, they were holding the piece.

"John, where have you been?" Hosea asked politely,

"Just needed some space, tough day" John confessed,

"We all struggle, that is why it’s always good to stick together on days like these." Susan comforted, placing a hand on his knee.

The words, how to speak them, how to ask were stuck in his throat, they looped in his mind. The camp laughed sombrely as they reminisced about tale and memories, John remained silent nursing beer after beer, until he was ready to finish what he started, what he set out to do so long ago, his lifelong mission, understanding Arthur.

"Evening," His droll tones called from the darkness, stopping John's plans dead in their tracks.

"You decided to join us," Hosea said warmly,

"Heard John was back," Arthur shot a glance over the fire to him before taking a position between Dutch and Hosea, "Thought it would look bad if I was the only one missing,"

The pain in his voice was surreal like he was mourning all over again. His face was haggard and distraught, his blue eyes pale and distant. John's senses were heightened, he could feel every whip of the cold night air against his neck, the smell of the burning logs, ashen and smoky, the sounds of the woods at night, competing with the lapping of the lake, his heart was beating in his ears. This could end them, all of them, he could lose Arthur for good, yet he felt courage in his conviction, there was a secret to be revealed, and for Arthur's sake he was going to do it.

"There is something I don't get," the muffled conversations ceased, and all eyes were on John, he smiled a little, honing his innocent childishness, it always served him well in these situations. Play the fool, and no one can attack him for harmlessly asking a harmful question.

"The night Annabelle died, Dutch and Arthur went after the O'Driscolls, Arthur came back injured, he was bleeding," John watched as Hosea and Dutch's expressions sunk, they knew. Arthur's eyes grew wild with terror as the flames of the fire licked up, consuming their darkened thoughts.

"We don't talk about that," the three said in almost perfect pitch and timing, it was uncanny how they all used the same words. Hosea flashed an uncertain glance to Dutch and then to Arthur,

"How do you know, Dutch, Arthur made me promise to keep it a secret," Hosea's mouth was open and then his brow furrowed,

"Arthur," Dutch was panicking, none the wiser to these promises or what Arthur had told Hosea, there was a lie between three but only one person had the whole truth, Arthur. His eyes were fixed on the wolf sat opposite him, through the flames, John's eyes were wild and alive, aware he possessed the key that unlocked everything. His brother, lover, best friend, the boy he vowed to protect into manhood was his destroyer, and he was about to undo his whole world. Arthur was on the receiving end of glares of fear and doubt, waiting for an explanation, his mind was clear, there was nothing to say other than that which sat firmly on his tongue,

"They never see you coming, do they, John Marston," With that he was up, away and out of camp quicker than a rabbit in the sights of a predator, leaving most aghast and confused to the significance of what had just happened. Dutch made his retreat not soon after aware his carefully knitted lies were at risk of unravelling, Hosea wasn't allowing him to escape, bellowing tones of anger ripped through the camp. The trip down memory lane was over, everyone slowly edged away back to the security of their tents. John sat back, swigged his beer, final confirmation of what haunted his dreams, what took Arthur away from him so many times.

"What have you done, John," Javier scowled, as he rose from his seat, he was always protective of the gang, saw its whole greater than the sum of its parts. John didn't acknowledge him, this was his family, their lies, the laundry needed washing.

"You go after him John," Mary-Beth sobbed, "You dare leave him in that state," John watched her tears descend, illuminated by the fire. He realised that she also knew the secret,

"How long!" He snarled at her, which got him a stern glare from Charles,

"About a year after you left," She hiccupped, remembering, "He didn't want to tell me, it just came out," She began to snivel and wretch,

"You didn't think to tell me," John was snide, downing the rest of his bottle, "I could have been fixing this long ago if you opened your big mouth and told the truth, you are no better than any of them." She bawled with ferocity, Charles scooped her up into his arms, while unclear what the hell was going on, he had nothing but disdain for John, suspected this little charade was his real reason for returning. To shoot a poison arrow through the heart of his family to remind them that they abandoned him, leaving him bitter and twisted.

"Vengeance is a dish best served cold," Charles spoke rhetorically and pulled Mary-Beth away from this spiteful character.


	44. Confessions

John inhaled a deep breath, he found his man, sat under the silver moonlight gazing at the stars. Seeking guidance from the celestial orbs that were gifted the personalities of Arthur's loved ones. John's hands trembled slightly, a bead of sweat tumbling down from his brow. This hadn't been where he wished the evening to go, or ultimately planned for when he decided to return to claim Arthur back, save Rose and get home alive. Perhaps he was wrong for thinking it would be so easy, believing he could unravel the man like a spool of fishing net from a trawler and wait for him to dredge the sea bed of his heart for all its treasured secrets. Only none of this could be counted as treasure, it was darker and more insidious than he could have imagined. After fleeing Arthur early that day he howled with the sad realisation that the person who hurt Arthur, caused him untold pain was probably closer than he realised. There were suspects, John couldn't be sure when it started, who for definite was the main perpetrator. Arthur didn't talk much about his life before the gang, his father's Gambler worn not as an act of memorial, as a reminder of who not to be. Perhaps there was more to that tale than initially thought, Dutch was the number one contender, but Arthur in his own way had been honest about the man, confessed to their relationship and his unrequited love. As malicious and uncaring Dutch could be, abuser, it was a whole world of fear unravelling in that prospect. He still didn't have a confession, suspected it would be like pulling teeth, at least he garnered enough of a reaction at the campfire to confirm he was on the right track, Arthur was raped, it had a profound effect on his fathers and Arthur.

Arthur was shrunken, sat on a log, a fawn trembling in fear, sensing the stalking mannerisms of the wolf behind him. John would sacrifice everything at this moment not to be himself, a clenching of his fist suppressed his anxiety. If he wasn't so hot-headed, wolfish as Arthur called it, or so weak with his doe eyes pleading, then Arthur may not have found himself in his current existence. If John had been different, then Arthur wouldn't have given everything to protect him. If John was different, this wouldn't descend into a brawl, he wasn't sure if that wouldn't be the case. Too doe and Arthur would convince him it was all in his head, build up the walls, too wolf, and they would kill each other rather than speak the truth. With absolute caution and care, John revealed himself to his prey, placing the gaslight that guided his way down and leant against a tree. It was too soon to be closer, Arthur would run, with his arms folded, John was ready for the conversation that has taken a lifetime to happen.

"How did you work it out?" Arthur grumbled, his jaw tightening around the words "Did Mary-Beth tell you?"

John darted his eyes away from the pathetic sullen face of Arthur, after all this time John still didn't receive the credit that is rightfully his, that he managed to come to this conclusion all on his own. Not that he would confront the man outright, that wasn't their style, John was the one that was an open book, his thoughts written across his face. John was experienced in plunging into the murky depths of Arthur's persona, leaving him drowning and confused. Learning, even at a snail's pace, if he wanted the truth, Arthur would have to willingly reveal it.

"No, she kept your secret," John wrapped his arms around his lean frame, protection, hugging himself tightly. His fingers gripping fiercely against the clothed skin of his biceps, clawing to abate the growing anger "Not that I understand why a girl you hardly knew gained your confidence quicker than I did?"

"It wasn't like that, John; how could I tell you?" Arthur flailed his arms in frustration, accepting that this conversation would be as much about them than what happened. His throat bobbed slightly, full of glass tightening and restricting, making his soft voice scratchy, he coughed, it didn't help to release the pressure, exhausted from the tears that have been shed, his face illumined by the moon is moist and distraught, "You were a boy, shit scared and dependent on my strength."

"Maybe everything between us is tainted because of that lie?" John offered an ounce of truth in all the deceit, why they could never make it work. The darkest of secrets withheld, left to fester underneath Arthur's skin, stopping him for reaching for the love he deserved and craved. Is this the way it had always been, two John's in his life, the lover he could allow himself to fall into deep union with and the kid, who still needed his protection. 

"Maybe," Arthur nodded slightly, his locks falling forward as he hung his head, trying to avoid John's glare. His eyes pools of lifeless grief, moving slowly up and down the tundra of the woods, unable to set upon John "Still don't get how you worked it out?"

John huffed a long and distressed breath, does how and why he arrived at the conclusion really matter, it is deflecting from the real issue, who? He was still none the wiser of what happened and how it happened when Arthur started lying to him, so devalued that he couldn't be honest, the supposed love for him not enough to break the chains. John massaged his chest, a hole forming in his heart, John's own calmness, coolness to it all, hiding a hidden strain. Arthur had finally broken them beyond repair, his lies, regardless of how they were told, were designed to protect his abuser at all costs, that was unforgivable. All John could offer in balance was the truth, an honest appraisal of how the pieces fell together, in the hope that one day Arthur will learn that honesty is a more powerful tool than lying.

"It took a ridiculous amount of time," John said, dragging his feet across to the felled tree finding a perch next to the broken man. Considering Arthur couldn't even look at him, not even a swift glance of acknowledgement, he might as well make himself comfortable

"Sometimes can't see what's right under your nose." No heat or warmth was permeating from Arthur, his body closed to all signs of affection. John sat, leaned forward, clasping both hands, chaining them together, restricting the desire to reach for him. John recalled when this was the closest they would be towards each other; two orphans sat on a log listening to two criminals convince them how they would one day conquer the west, how ridiculous. They were innocent boys back then would believe anything if it meant safety. 

"The last time you crashed into my life you told me to remember," John began at the beginning when he realised the depths of the man's despair were not readily available in his memory.

"Your shit, John, not mine" Arthur roared, irritated, the first sign of life in the man. John bit on his lip, that roar still had power over him. John paused for a moment, allowing his muscles to settle, typical Arthur, his rage is only at himself, he opened the door, John couldn't be held responsible for walking through it.

"Well my shit wasn't that hard to remember once you reminded me, yours was allusive, played on my mind, couldn't figure it out, became like a puzzle that needed solving." John countered, trying to tame the wolf, this couldn't descend into an argument, "One memory kept popping into my head, you bleeding, me asking why you were bleeding"

"Goddamn you, Marston" Arthur responded cruelly "One damned moment."

"Not one moment," John corrected himself, returned his nails to his arms, gouging his rage into his skin "A lifetime of observation, just too blind and in love to see it,"

A stilled silence befell them, eye contact was an intolerable option both ragged from the unravelling spool of lies that became the fabric of their existence. Yet, in the hardened unwillingness to accept what was evidently true a thawing started, sooner than John wished, he shuffled closer, a knee barely touching that of Arthur's_. Blind and in love,_ that is how he kept his secrets, compliance from the doe who worshipped the ground he walked on.

"Remember when I was a kid," John squawked a little too brightly for the topic, "you always got angry because you could never guess what was in my head."

"More like what stupid question would come out of your mouth," Arthur grumbled, pushed his knee playfully against John's.

"It took me a while to channel kid John, with Rose, worrying about you being hunted, the farm" John rationalised, there was too much in his head fighting for dominance, it allowed Arthur's secrets to go undetected for so long,

"Pregnant farmers wife," Arthur interjected.

"Pregnant lovers' wife," John chuckled correcting, not forgetting the role of Giorgio in their demise, "And I don't think you're in a position to throw mud!" Arthur let out a strained laugh at John's chastisement, he wasn't precisely perfect himself, feeling warmth blossoming slightly he shuffled closer to John.

"Kid John, he got it straight away, the one stupid question to be asked, that makes the answer obvious" John paused, took a breath and raked his gaze across Arthur, pleading with his eyes from the man he loved since before it was appropriate to love him in that way.

"Go on, this should be good," Arthur groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the log. Turning away from John and not towards him. His insides were raw and bleeding, no amount of doe or wolf was going to repair the damage John had inflicted on him.

"How the hell does Arthur Morgan know what abused kids need?" John was flippant, arrogant in his tone. 

That was the question that made everything click into place. Arthur's intervention with Rose, and him, explaining what Rose needed, the love and support, and how John could deliver it. Using his own childhood to create a tapestry of do's and don'ts when handing the shattered, confused mind of a child. How could Arthur be so sure of himself, so expert in such an obscure topic, how is Arthur expert in anything, experience?

"The confidence, Arthur, you were so sure you raised me right, and how you raised me was how to raise Rose. All of it was a big red arrow pointing to your own experience, I just didn't question it at the time, because I don't question you when you are teaching me." John reached out and grabbed Arthurs hand, confident Arthur wouldn't appreciate the contact John needed it, retched and pulled by his own cluelessness to the obvious.

"Rose has been so cruel since you left, always comparing us and I always came up short, because you Arthur Morgan know what abused kids need to feel loved and secure." John, feeling absolved of his grief, lightened by the revelations of how he uncovered Arthur's past, placed a firm hand on the outlaw's face, cupping it and bringing him closer. 

Arthur flinched at the contact but didn't fight, instead, he allowed himself to be guided, for his eyes to be aligned with his doe, so full and bright and loving.

"So, now we are pretty damn sure I know the goddamn answer already, I have two questions for you and if you don't answer them straight, I am leaving Arthur, and I won't be coming back." A sharp gasp left Arthur's lips, his greatest fear, unlike all the other times he pushed John away, expecting him to return, now he was painfully aware this was last chance saloon, to push would be the end of it all. He grabbed John's arms; the bulky biceps have grown from his time away. John flinched a little, his eyebrows jumping at the force of Arthur's fingers digging in, naturally expecting they would be rolling into a fight. 

Arthur read it, leant forward and caressed his moist, quivering lips against John's reassuring him that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Ask your questions" Arthur murmured, pressing his forehead against John in submission, he couldn't lose him, not now and not ever.

"Why were you bleeding, Arthur?" John's eyes filled with tears as his voice quivered, "And why do you know what abused kids need?"

"I ugh..." Arthur hesitated the shards of glass returning to his throat, he tried to recall the revelation to Mary-Beth if he could gain a steer of the best way to do this. That was all heat and anger, a slip from his addled brain in an attempt to protect. He placed an arm around John, guiding his head to his chest; if this was needed, there was no way he was looking at his boy's face.

"I am not like you or not like what happened to you, it didn't start when I was a kid, I was almost a man" Arthur huffed, he had to be honest, no matter how painful it was to admit. John clenched, the revelation, one of his suspects was out of the picture, Arthur's father died when he was kind, John took a deep breath, he wanted to know, and now he does. "I wanted it, John, I thought he loved me, he told me he loved me."

"Doesn't that make it worse," John broke his hold pulling away from his affection "What happened to me was a transaction Arthur? It wasn't manipulation."

"I am trying John, this is hard, it's my whole life" Arthur tried to tame him, pulling him back closer, John reluctantly fell back into his arms, laying his head across his chest, hearing the hammering of his heartbeat.

"When did you realise?" John prompted Arthur to continue,

"Realise what?" Arthur drawled, forgetting what he had previously said. 

"That it wasn't love?" John croaked, wishing the answer to be a long time ago and not last week.

"It was always love for me," Arthur confirmed making John wince, it was the hardest part, the part he suspected, that Arthur will always hold a flame for his first love, "I thought if I tried harder, that he would love me."

"Arthur," John withdrew again, unable to listen to the talk of love. His confessions of trying harder, being the workhorse, the kicked puppy, everything that was always there, so significant in his actions, his acts that appeared outside of his grumpy personality. Arthur wasn't fuelled by the need to be loved by anyone, it was all for a specific someone. 

"Do you still love him?" The dam was filling, his breathing laboured, his eyes filling with tears, he got up, walked a few paces, a question he could not bear to hear the answer to.

"No John, not for a long time," Arthur drawled calmly, sensing John's fears, he quietly moved behind him, wrapping his arms tightly around John, kissing his neck, "Not since us, not since before us, I realised I always loved you, wanted to protect you, was scared for you."

"Why were you scared for me?" John snivelled, using the fabric of his shirt cuffs to wipe away the tears.

"He threatened your safety," Arthur confessed, recalling the day he almost ended it all, what got him back of that ledge, would John appreciate knowing that, it was him and him alone that forced Arthur to live, 

"He said If I didn't behave, he would turn his attention to you" It wasn't the full version, a retelling of Arthur's suicide attempt would probably send John of an emotional cliff edge he was barely holding on to. A flash of John holding on to him over the cliff edge when he was younger filled Arthur's mind, the terror of almost losing him filling his gut. What he would give for a Valentine bathtub right now, John's emotions were more malleable in water, he could control any outbursts.

"Sick bastard, why did you do it?" John croaked, replaying all the threats from Dutch when he was a boy. 

If he had only been honest with Arthur, told him the truth about what was said, they could have been here a lot sooner.

"Don't you think if he ever touched me, the first person I would have told was you?" John challenged Arthur, not to enlighten him about the cruel words was one thing, he would have told Arthur is something like that happened, hell he wouldn't have needed to tell him, Arthur would have read it straight away.

"I was broken, I couldn't think straight, you were the only good thing in my life, protecting you was my only reason to live." Arthur's words flowed like rapids, thunderously crashing into each other as he tried to justify his actions "He tried to send you away, convinced everyone you had to go, I couldn't let that happen, couldn't be without you."

John inhaled a deep breath, unclenched Arthur's hands from his hips and pulled him around, so they were facing one another. "I love you," He declared before stealing a kiss from his outlaw, "I need you to love yourself, to value yourself as much as I do."

Arthur nodded in childlike agreement before claiming John's lips in a yearning kiss, swiping his tongue trying to gain entry. John pulled away instantly, intimacy was just a tactic, and Arthur wasn't getting off the hook that easily,

"You've only answered one of my questions," John folded his arms raised an eyebrow, gaining a groan from Arthur. He sat back down on the log, unsure how he was going to verbalise why he was bleeding.

"The night Annabelle died," He crowed, tonight the anniversary, how apt, "I had been smoking opium, I was using it to block out Isaac and Eliza."

John shuffled over to join him, opium, if he hadn't of smoked it with the man, he would never have believed it was part of his life. It was so confusing trying to marry Arthur's reaction to his own flirtation with opium with Arthur's explicit use of the drug.

"It's like I don't know you," John whined, he whined that accusation before, the night Arthur told him about Isaac and Eliza. John was overcome with a real sense of Deja Vue, the retelling of their whole lives, only this time the pages Arthur chose to skip back were being read accurately this time.

"I am very good at hiding," Arthur reminded him, an almost proud smile on his face,

"In plain sight" John added, scowling, he moved closer resting his head on Arthur's shoulder encouraging his arms around him, they had to hold each other, hold on to each other as this incendiary explosion ripped through them.

"When we went after the O'Driscolls," Arthur continued, "He said he knew where they were, you begged me not to go, not to leave" Arthur ran his fingers through John's lacklustre hair, hoping he understood the significance, that day only John wanted to protect him.

"He was hitting you" John announced, it was fleeting, but he could just about recall that day.

"I had to go, keep him safe, keep us all safe," Arthur confirmed, "Only there weren't no O'Driscolls, it was a way of getting me out of the camp to punish me, he blamed me for Annabelle's death."

"What did he do Arthur?" John trembled against Arthur's stiff frame, he knew the answer, they were both painfully aware that Arthur's bleeding meant only one thing.

"You know what he did John, don't make me say it," Arthur pleaded, his throat squeezing,

"Please Arthur, don't let my mind fill in the blanks" John focussed on himself, how he would react to telling such a tale. He had to hear it from Arthur's lips, how Arthur saw it.

"He took me to a cabin, knocked me out and he…." A stuttered sharp breath tore through him,"…. raped me,"

A drip of moisture onto his black trousers was the only sign Arthur was crying, not the devastating implosion during their torture session in St Denis. Was Arthur starting to accept his real reality and not the lies he told himself. John pulled up and embraced him in a robust unyielding hug,

"Why did you stay with him, why couldn't you leave and come back to me?" John croaked, almost in floods of tears himself,

"I wasn't worth your love, never have been, don't you see everything happened because I am not good enough." Arthur stuttered, took a breath to compose himself. "The life you have built for yourself isn't the life you would have had if you stayed with me." Arthur pulled away from the comfort to suffocating, "Everyone I love dies John, I don't want that for you, I want you to live, even if it means we can't be together."

The sudden withdrawal sent John flying, Arthur confessing all was starting to build his walls back up, the walls he spent an enjoyable evening breaking, they were broken, Arthur was his, compliant. Absolved of his darkest secret he was regaining a sense of himself, his life's mission to protect John.

"You need to go, leave the gang, he will kill you, John," Arthur barked,

"Not if I kill him first," John countered a little too hastily, their voices piquing gaining traction for an argument.

"Not for me, don't be reckless for me, I am not worth it," Arthur wasn't weak when he said it, his chest puffed out, authoritative, this was a command, John didn't wish to play by Arthur's rules no more,

"Fine Arthur," John smiled, "We will get the Emerald Ranch job done, and I will leave," 

Arthur visibly shook, expecting an argument he was greeted with acceptance, John for his own safety was going to listen to Arthur and leave the gang. Agreed that Arthur wasn't worth fighting for, didn't deserve his love, it was the right thing, Arthur shook his head in acknowledgement, picked up his discarded Gambler, placing it firmly on his head and began to walk back to camp.

"But you are coming with me," John hollered knowing Arthur when the exit music was playing, he never came back for an encore.


	45. Time

John barely got an hour's sleep, preparing for the Emerald Rach job, his plan wasn't by any means perfect. All he could do was pre-empt what he thought would happen and how. Having witnessed enough jobs go wrong, John was sure there would be a bullet hole or two with his name on it. He decanted the dregs of whisky from his hip flask and poured the syrupy liquid in, securing it in his breast pocket. The vile from Theodore was placed carefully into his satchel along with as many medical supplies he could get. If there was a shootout, he was prepared, his weapons cleaned and ready. 

Dawn was breaking across flat Iron lake, all he could do was marvel at the colours, the greys giving way to pale blue, the wisps of oranges and yellows as the sunburst on the horizon. He thought to wake Arthur, to share this moment, one final point of serenity before all hell broke loose, but Arthur could still read him, would identify his fears and finality and suspect all was not right.

Micah and Dutch took the lead, Arthur rode alongside Javier and John had the pleasure of Sean bending his ear off. The man didn't know how to let an argument settle, it was clear from everyone else's posture then tension from last night was still present, Sean either couldn't read it or chose to ignore it.

"May the roof above you never fall in, and those gathered beneath it never fall out." That what my old Ma used to say. An audible groan ripped through the six,

"Enough about Ma and Pa, it never changes," John quipped but was met with deathly silence.

"Where are we going," Arthur grumbled after many hours of riding, "Emerald Ranch is north of here,"

"Don't question me Arthur," Dutch snapped from the front, "Why don't you and John head up to that ridge and report what you see, we will take head west and see if we can get a vantage point."

Arthur shook his head in annoyance, this wasn't going to be a big job, slight of hand, perhaps Hosea was better placed. He led John up to the ridge, got out his binoculars to view the Ranch. A few hands were tending the animals, barely anything worthy of note. 

"Goddamn, what the hell!" Arthur whispered,

"What is it, Arthur?" John played along, expectant that Arthur had clocked the black suits of the Pinkertons, there was an army of them concealed in that Ranch, unaware that John was bringing them their prize. Arthur heard a crack and a groan, turning, the click of a hammer poised ready to shoot deafened his ear, it was Dutch.

"On your knees," Dutch ordered, the pair collapsed simultaneously a plumb of dust thickened the air. A trickle of blood ran down John's forehead where the butt of a gun struck him, he swayed slightly still disorientated, _what have you done Marston_. With their wrists bound and facing each other, it was a moment of clarity, their calamitous lives leading to this juncture, at least they will go together.

"I know what is waiting for me down there, a goddamn ambush," Dutch growled, gesticulating towards the throng of Pinkerton men, camping off Emerald Ranch, it was an army camped discreetly behind the Ranch house. Arthur studied John, blocking out Dutch's caterwauling, he needed to know, did was this John's doing or was it coincidence, he couldn't protect him without the truth.

"What I don't know is which one of my so-called sons betrayed me, but we are about to find out." Dutch kicked the dust in-between them, they coughed, their eyes irritated by the particles, breaking their eye contact. The wind picked up, a chilling spring breeze sweeping across their faces making their eyes water more. The spring sun dimmed as black cloud encroached, a storm was about to hit them, in more ways that one.

"We are going to play a little game of truth." Dutch paced, his muscles rippling and contorted with the pain of disloyalty. Micah, sat back against a rock watching the scene unfold, Javier and Sean were ridged, they had been informed of the betrayal, silenced in disbelief, rigid like soldiers waiting for instructions, their guns pointed at the two men, their brothers.

"Micah!" Dutch yelled.

"Yes, boss." His snivelling tone confirmed his enjoyment, the long-awaited destruction of the lapdog Morgan, Marston's involvement was an added bonus. They were sure to remain loyal to each other and not break, mutually assured destruction, taking the fall so Micah could escape without suspicion.

"Shoot John," Dutch said cruelly.

"No!" Arthur shouted; a crashing bolt scraped across the sky. "Please Dutch, I swear, those men down there have nothing to do with us, it's just coincidence."

"I don't rightly believe in coincidences anymore." Dutch chuckled. "Like it was a coincidence that John just happened to turn up again after all these years, the same time as the Pinkertons."

"He was here for me, Dutch; he came for me." Arthur pleaded, his voice breaking. The delicate drops of rain began to fall against their skin, slow and painstaking. Arthur's mind raced, the fear of losing him, trying to piece together every word spoken, the signs, was John betraying them, selling them to the Pinkertons, were all his declarations of love, lies.

"I know what you did to him Dutch." John was cold, calculated, he couldn't watch Arthur beg at Dutch's feet. A further streak of lightning lit up the sky, his wolf features cried with certainty.

"Oh, do you now." Dutch ran his revolver provocatively up Arthur's cheek. "My boy been telling tales has he." Dutch pushed the gun into Arthur's cheek, eliciting a growl of pain. "Didn't leave though did he, Arthur Morgan he is as loyal as he is stupid." Dutch rumbled; his laughter silenced by the rolling thunder.

"How did that make you feel John knowing he didn't love you enough to leave, loyal to what matters, I bet that made you angry, bitter, a betrayer." A sense of discomfort befell the group, discussions underway that were rooted in time, in a family, torn apart long ago, Javier and Sean chose to be deaf, not to listen, dissent now would only lead to their own deaths. Micah smiled; this was getting interesting.

"Shut up, John." Arthur roared, trying to fight his restraints. Unsure what the motivation for provocation was at this time when they were both bound and helpless. The spits of rain began to fall heavy.

"No" John was clear, Arthur and Dutch had to face this, had to see what they had done to each other. "I didn't betray you Dutch; I don't care a minute for you." He flicked his wettened slick hair from his eyes, revealing his scowl. "I came back for Arthur, came to take him home."

"His home is with me, always has been, always will be." Dutch sneered; he was riled by such a preposterous notion; Arthur would never leave him.

"I am his home Dutch, he always comes back to me, eventually." John smiled, confident he was right, had always been right. Dutch cracked, launching himself at John, pounding fists into his face. Each swing punctuated with a flash of lightning or a rumble of thunder.

"Please stop, this is crazy." Arthur cried out, frustrated. "Javier, Sean, make it stop." He cried and begged and pleaded, wriggling on the ground, trying to break free. The dust was turning to mud, deluging him, if he could get the right amount of lubrication, he could break free of his bonds. It was no use, they were too tight, his wrist still weakened and sore from what John had done, defeated he watched on in horror as the man he once loved, trusted, beat his bound lover. 

"Stop!" Arthur roared. Dutch finally withdrew, John's velvet red blood mixed with the glopping mud.

"Tell me, Arthur, who betrayed me!" Dutch barked once more. 

"We didn't betray you Dutch, I swear," He cried out. John coughed and spluttered, wheezing air into his chest. Dutch was pensive, he was sure he knew when Arthur was lying had seen it too many times, there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was. 

"Dutch…." John struggled to sit upright, filthy from the onslaught, his bloody face, mauled, he still smiled. "Dutch raped Arthur, Dutch, abused Arthur, Dutch took everything from Arthur." He bellowed, loud, wanting the whole world to know the truth. He focused stone dead on Javier and Sean, the only two men he could trust to have an ounce of morality left in them. They looked at each other, confused, perplexed unsure what to do with this information.

"Dutch?" Javier stared at his leader, his mind filled with years of interactions and memories, moments where Dutch and Arthur appeared ready to kill each other, broken, it was plausible and on the balance of probability more than likely the truth.

"Don't Dutch me." He nervously paced, feet stomping in the pooling water, facing his demons head-on. "I took a broken boy from the streets, I made him into a cool, cold, killer." Dutch launched his fists in the air. "I made you Arthur Morgan, you can't create a machine by hugging him and being nice to him. My cruelty made you what you are." His justification was terrifying, alluding to the monster within, the one who was well hidden for all these years. Still, their guns were trained on John and Arthur.

"Hear that Arthur, he made you, made you what you are" John spat out blood from his mouth. Arthur was a machine, a killer, appropriately riled he could destroy like no other. The fabled outlaw of the Van Der Linde Gang, swift and ghost-like, not even his own gang knew how to stop him once he started; if only John could press the buttons to make him tick. "You going to let him break you again, destroy us." John was incensed, focussed, oceans of water running down his face, intense with determination.

"Micah shut him up." Micah stepped forward, clasping his hands around John's chin to silence him.

"You think you can do that to him," Dutch chuckled. "Can make him fight for you!" Dutch bent down beside the restrained John. "Oh, poor little John, grew up never knowing the truth." He wiped a smear of blood from his face. 

"You are right, I did rape Arthur, punishment for Annabelle. I did abuse him, I broke him enough to keep him compliant, but I didn't take everything from him." Dutch waved his hands dramatically in the air, lighting up the sky like a conjurer. "No, that my dear son is something that is laid firmly at your door and you don't even know it."

"No Dutch, Please." Arthur screamed, pulling at Dutch's trousers. "See John, see how he begs, pleads for me, he would do anything at this point, to please me. If I told him to shoot every Pinkerton down there, he would, that's loyalty John, that's power I have that, you don't." Arthur cried uncontrollably against his leader, John's eyes studied the scene, repulsed that he had allowed it to get this bad. Had left Arthur alone too long with his abuser, his focus didn't shift, it was utterly broken, and without care and comfort all Arthur had was Dutch to hold in to. "Its too late Arthur, we can't keep secrets anymore," Dutch kicked him away. "It is about time John learnt the truth."

"When you were twelve, I fought tooth and nail with Arthur." Dutch reminisced, bending to meet his wolfish gaze. "I wanted you gone, saw the danger, Arthur here though he knew better, believed he could tame the wild colt and claim a companion."

"Don't listen to him, John," Arthur growled.

"He didn't send you away like I asked, instead he ran away with you." John's eyes narrowed, he knew this story, Arthur had told him, they went away together. "Oh, he remembers," Dutch said with glee. "So that will stop any claims of lying."

"Don't listen, John, please." Arthur cried out. "It's not true, I promise you," John dismissed Arthur's begging, he was needed to know, whatever it was, the lies had to stop, for both their sakes.

"While you were away, Arthur failed in one of his other duties." John's frowned, his mind ticking ready for an explosive revelation, Arthur tried to get up and was swiftly pushed back down again by Dutch

"John, please just look at me, don't look at him look at me." John's eyes shot to Arthur for a moment but remained fixed on Dutch. Arthur deflated, falling back in defeat.

"A duty I think we will all agree was his reason for living, his motivation for existing." Dutch cried with laughter. "I must thank you, John, without your intervention, I don't think he would have stayed with me." John's stomach rolled, what had he done that was so bad to make Arthur want to stay with Dutch.

"Poor Eliza and Isaac, do you think they cried for him when the bullets tore through their flesh." Dutch knelt down once again, brushed John's black hair behind his ear, wiped the blood from his forehead. "Cried for him to save them, but he was nowhere to be seen, too busy protecting his wayward little brother." John couldn't breathe, Micah's grip tightly around his chin wouldn't loosen, he coughed up vomit and began to choke. Finally released, he planted his face in the mud, struggling, coughing and spluttering, he didn't wish to breathe, death was all he deserved.

"You took everything from him, John, to protect you, he lost the most precious thing in the world to him, he lost Isaac." His mind somersaulted, why hadn't he seen it, all the pieces were there, he was responsible for their deaths, him alone and his selfish need for Arthurs attention.

"It isn't true, John; they could have died anytime when I wasn't there." Arthur pleaded.

"Yes but they didn't, they died when he would have been there," Dutch interjected. "He could have saved them, John, if he wasn't running around after you." John took a gulp, his throat stinging with the sorrow, all these lies to protect him, to shelter him from the painful truth, Isaac, Arthur's most treasured possession was dead because of him. That is why he couldn't stay, not Dutch, not the gang, not loyalty, Arthur couldn't bear to be around him too long because he knew the truth, he was disloyal to his dead son by loving John. In moments of weakness he would give in, then the voices would start, the admonishment, the guilt, all because of John.

"Please, John, I love you." Arthur crumpled. Even now, with the truth apparent and obvious, he still wanted to protect him. Again put John's needs before his own. He couldn't allow that to happen anymore, couldn't watch Arthur, his Arthur, the man he loved so dearly destroy himself to protect him. Not when he had been lying since he returned, his transition finally complete, John didn't come back for Arthur, he used him to get to Dutch, to protect Rose. He was now no better than the pair who raised him. Arthur had to see it, had to understand if he stood any chance of surviving this. Arthur sacrificed himself too many times for John now was the time to pay him back,

"I love you." John mouthed back, his voice too stretched and hoarse to be heard.

"They kidnapped my daughter," John confessed. He watched as the realisation crossed Arthur's face, for once he was the liar. Convincing Arthur he returned to bring him home, that he was doing it purely for him. He wanted to say so much, help Arthur understand, but time slipped through their hands like dust, the moment of truth was once again being wrenched so cruelly from them. After the hurt, the betrayal, would Arthur protect Rose, save her as he had failed to save his own son.

"Rose" Arthur whimpered. "Why didn't you say?" 

"Oh, and yet more secrets." Dutch crowed. "We are definitely family."

"I can only get her back if I bring them to you, both of you." John accepted it was the right thing to do. Arthur protected him his whole life, shielded him from the truth, put himself in harm's way, stayed with his abuser, sacrificed his son. There was nothing John could give him in return to thank him for such commitment and love. All he could do was die for him, die to protect him, die for his freedom. He was Arthur Morgan, after all, Dutch Van der Linde's favourite timepiece. They will put this episode behind them, bury it with all the others, Arthur will save Rose, and they will go on. He will die, pay for his sins.

A shot boomed across the valley. John flew backwards, almost knocking Micah from his feet. John lay in the dirt blood pooling from his left side, his heart. Arthur scurried over to be by his side, crying as he heard the last beats of his heart fade.

"Thank you, John," Dutch said triumphantly.

"You two." Dutch turned to a now dumbfounded Javier and Sean. "Get back to camp, I want everyone packed up and ready to go."

"What about Arthur?" Javier inquired after his old friend.

"Micah and I are going to take Arthur to see an acquaintance." Dutch sneered. "One that has wanted to get his hands on him for a while" Dutch watched as Arthur sobbed on John's corpse, he always had tears for John, even after his confession and betrayal. He could sense there was no coming back from this, for all his resilience, Arthur had a breaking point, John was it. Might as well use him to his advantage, settle old scores, Arthur wouldn't be much use beyond a bargaining chip. He shook his head, what a shame to lose someone as good as Arthur, such a waste.


	46. Rose

His body lay motionless, the ruby-red blood mixed with the grey mud had all but washed away with the ferocity of the spring storm. His final resting place and outcrop facing west, where the sun would rise over his decaying corpse until someone, anyone saw fit to bury him. Or the vultures came to claim his body back into the natural world, no better than what he deserved. Time ticked by so slowly, he was willing himself to revive, get on with his plan. Hard to do when his heart had been stolen, stopped beating altogether with the revelations, the final piece of the puzzle. A tear rolled down his dirty face, cleaning a single solitary path, removing the mud and the blood so only the pure white skin could be seen, one tear that was all he had left. If he stayed there long enough then death would take him, his final mission a failure, like so many others, all because John couldn't fight for what he loved harder than those who wanted to destroy it.

John coughed, groaned and sat up; they were gone. The storm had passed, the light droplets of rain refreshing the filth from his dampened skin. His body did not feel like his own, taken by some force more powerful than he ever encountered. Having experienced death multiple times, he gritted his teeth ready for the fight once again. No ferryman was going to take his coin today, too many people depended on him to get this done. His fingers felt along the searing burn of the gunshot wound, right on his heart, it would have killed him outright if he hadn't placed his hip flask in his shirt pocket, filled with animal blood for added potency. The bullet still managed to penetrate, but the scar tissue from his previous two wounds mitigated the full deadly force. The pain was dull, aching, was it the bullet or the numbness of knowing the truth. John took Isaac from Arthur, a debt that could never be repaid. John whistled for Jezebel, his loyal steed approached him cautiously, sensing her owner was broken more than physically, she pulled him up with her reigns and let him ease himself on.

"Come on, girl, let's go get Rose," John whispered into her ear as he leant forward, unable to prop himself up in his saddle. Jezebel took it easy on him, meandering the terrain towards their destination. As they approached the Ranch, the hailing calls for leadership rang out, John grasped through his satchel and found the vile, two drops were all he could consume, enough to keep his focus, enough to get to Rose. Milton approached, poised in all his finery and bowler hat, Ross loyally stood by his side. John didn't even have the energy to spit the venom that was resting in his throat, these men had taken everything from him, ruined him and any hopes of reuniting with his family. The gang was dead, they might not know it yet but there is no way they would accept their existence without Arthur by their side. Dutch's biggest mistake, the one he would spend the rest of his life regretting, it was not Arthur who needed Dutch, it was always Dutch that needed Arthur, now he was going to throw that away.

"What happened to you?" The older man asked, his eyebrow raised at the sight of the dying John, he couldn't hold on any longer, falling from Jezebel and landing in the dirt. What little air settled in his lungs, expelled by the impact, he gasped in pain, his chest rolling as it desperately tried to capture a breath without tremendous aching pain.

"They…." John's voice barely a rasping whisper, Milton stole the light from his view, trying to hear his last gasped words, "They worked out I was betraying them, they headed North." Both men stood eyeing the pathetic sight of this once notorious outlaw crumbled in a dying mess before them.It was always the same, once they fell, they were no better than whimpering children crying for their mothers' comfort.

"Mr Milton, this man needs medical attention," The stern voice of Joseph, filled the air. John couldn't see the short man, his salt and pepper hair and bespectacled scowl played in his memory. From the tone in his voice, John could imagine he had aged about five years from his time spent with these men.

"No, this man can die in the dirt where he belongs." Milton held his hand up, stopping the advances of the physician. He crouched down, sneering at the struggling body of John Marston, wishing to watch the final gulp of air, that fearful glint in the eye when a man goes to meet his maker.

"Mr Milton, your job is law and order" Joseph protested, his shadow cast long over the two men. "Allowing a man to die like a dog is not in your remit of responsibilities."

"But die he will anyway, regardless of your interventions," Milton challenged, rising to meet the stern man as he inched closer.

"Rose," John barely managed to escape a gasp. His body was failing him, his breath laboured and slow, he couldn't see anymore, could scarcely hear the well-discussed arguments of these supposedly educated men on the propriety of how a man should die. John thought in silence might be the preferable option.

"At least have the decency to let the girl say goodbye," Ross interjected, having taken to the little urchin, she called for this man night and day, even the Doc couldn't get her wails under control. The need she displayed for her father far outweighed the bile he felt towards the outlaw. Denying her the chance to see him once last time would be akin to ripping her heart out of her chest and allowing her to watch it beat in front of her. Dr Joseph Barnes clearly had the same thought, putting them together in the most eloquent plea.

"We turn innocence and righteousness into savagery when we deny basic decency." The doctor spoke with all the passion of a pastor on Sunday. Milton's lip was shaking with rage, unable to argue against the doctors considered words.

"Fine" Milton sucked his teeth, tamping at the insubordination. "You two get this outlaw into the Doc's surgery, if he doesn't die, he will hang in the morning. Ross, we are heading North."

John floated, disorientated, dipping in and out of consciousness. His carcass was ungracefully pulled into the small shack that was doubling as Joseph's surgery. He groaned as his body was thrown against the wooden slats that made up his operating table. He was close now, his breaths shallow, the silence was warm arms wrapping around him, a sun-kissed field full of blooms lay before him, his mother and Beth, smiling.

"Go get the girl now, he doesn't have long." Joseph barked, eyeing up the two suited men with disdain.

"Did Theodore tell you the plan?" John croaked as Joseph moistened his lips with water, John pitifully tried to grab at his arm, reaching for confirmation that with his death seemingly inevitable, Theodore and Joseph would protect Rose.

"Yes, it sounds stupid, but most things from your mind often are", Joseph smirked, John was a challenging boy and even harder man to fathom. "I easily dismissed that mind until I saw that glint of genius that shone in your eyes." Joseph tried to remain calm, his hands shaking, praying that God would forgive them all for what they were about to do to poor Rose. The girl was beyond fragile, this act would be enough to tip her over the edge.

"John" she wailed as her blue eyes scanned his near-dead corpse. His head slanting to the side as he reached his hand out to her, grasping for her to come closer. He couldn't see, but the first touch was all he needed to remember his special girl, her scowl, those rosy red cheeks blushing with rage.

"My girl," He mumbled, pulling the material of her dress until she was close enough to feel her warmth. Her blue ocean eyes welled with stinging tears. "I came for you,"

"No," she cried out, striking him hard, trying to revive life back into him, "Save him!" She scowled out Joseph, pleading with her fierce eyes.

"I am sorry, Rose, he can't be saved." Joseph enclosed the space between them, scooping the young girl into his arms and placing her next to her dying father's side. "Say your goodbye while he can still hear you."

"You promised," She screeched into his ear, "You promised you wouldn't leave me," Each word punctuated with a huff of morose heart-breaking breath. Promises, that's all any of them gifted each other, in the end, they'd all been broken. The rattle finally came from John's chest as he stopped breathing and slipped from this world.

Day fell into night and day again, Joseph allowed Rose to stay by John's side until his pallor was deathly white and his skin cold to the touch. The next steps were not deemed inappropriate for a child to see, the preparation of the body, the washing and cleansing, clean clothes neatly placed and the lifting into the wooden box, it was basic, not befitting the life it held within. Rose waited close by, her cries of pain were broken by long periods of silence. When her heart settled with acceptance of John's death, she read her favourite book, of Alice and Wonderland, her mind taking her back to when she and John would read together, sat on the porch of the rectory in the sunlight, dreaming of another world that could take away their pain. How she longed for that child, that childhood, to be back there, it was good enough.

"I will take him for burial," Joseph proposed to Milton. The man scorching with rage having unsuccessfully ridden through the night to hunt the Van Der Linde Gang. They had been so close to capturing their man, yet once again he evaded capture, always one step ahead.

"Let him rot in the sun and have done with it," Milton growled, "He doesn't deserve a burial, don't waste your time."

"Mr Milton, a child, has lost her father, a child who is already broken" Joseph shot the man a stern look, his skin sallow with exhaustion, his educated eyes flashing with authority. "You will only turn her into her father if you keep denying her civility, she will become worse than this gang you seek and destroy everything in her wake, proving your life's work thankless and unending. If you push her now, her rage will grow, and you will be the one to feel her force."

Milton stiffened at the summary, he wanted the world rid of the plague of the outlaw, not to create new ones. Be avenged by children when they became adults, an unending focus driven by pain and loss. Milton smirked a little, it was preposterous to believe that one so small and frail as the golden-haired child would come for him, seek him out for revenge. His throat tightened at the sight of Rose's bloodshot eyes scanning every inch of his body, her scowl so thick across her brow he could see the hunter in her waiting to be unleashed.

"Fine, bury him" Milton scoffed.

"I shall take the child to St Denis, there is a children's home run by nun's, they will see fit she is cared for." Joseph pulled Rose close as the coffin was loaded to the cart. Milton's ferret eyes studied the man for a long while, his suspicions of why the Doc came at all still not answered, a kind gesture to support the Government men was not commonplace, especially in these parts. Having him gone would be the best for all, he was too wise and learned, gave Milton's men ideas above their station. Milton nodded his approval, not that it was being sought, Joseph already had the girl placed next to him. Her long golden locks wild as they struck to her saddened, tear ridden face. Would anyone cry for Milton in that way, feel his loss from the world in such reverberating unending void. The girl loved her father, regardless of the fact he was a no-good murdering outlaw, that was the greatest injustice of it all, love had no consideration for the law.

"Why are we stopping," Rose grumbled as the cart came to a halt.

"It is late, we need to rest up, or we will come a cropper on the road," Joseph said casually, they were outside of Rhodes, close enough for security but far enough away for no one to pay them much attention. Joseph was no outdoorsman, struggled to fashion appropriate shelter, Rose had to light the fire for him.

"We shall rest here tonight and in the morning on to St Denis, try and get some sleep." Rose was tired of scowling and arguing, her heart was broken, but even she could see the folly of sleeping out in such a notorious part of the world. John had educated her that much, not that they ever went anywhere. He was cautious that the life they built together may not be the life they were destined to live, John had enough experience of life-changing events to keep his daughter informed of all the risks, where they were, what form they took. Rose feigned sleep to settle Joseph, but she kept one eye open just in case.

Rose was awoken by an eerie sound of metal on wood. The cold night air nipped at her skin, sending a shiver up her spine. She listened carefully, sensing something was afoot, she trembled as her mind raced with the possibilities. Witching hour always filled her with unease, the children in school had the ghastliest tales of witches, ghosts and ghouls sent to steal their innocent souls. John always reassured her when he held her through her tears that it wasn't the dead she should be worrying about, the living were far more dangerous. Rose rolled her eyes, he was never proper in his parenting, sometimes she wondered who the child was, but now without him, her heart ached intolerably. Sensing this was her life now, the one he prepared her for she got up. Her body shook with adrenaline as she crept over to the noise, Joseph was nowhere to be seen, so much for protecting me, she rolled her eyes once more. With every step, she became braver until, in the darkness, she saw what was making such an unnerving noise.

"This better have worked John Marston," Joseph grumbled as he pulled out a nail from the coffin lid, he repeated the process before edging the wooden top of the casket. In the gloomy night, he peered down, watching where the body lay. Rose gulped, fear making her hairs stand on end, who was this man sent to protect her, what was his plans for John's body. She thought to challenge him and then thought against it, he could harm her. She watched silently shaking, until a black mass slowly rose from the coffin, sitting up. Her heart rate spiked, her throat bobbing violently as it thickened stopping air from filling her lungs. The undead, she quivered before running back to the tent. She dived under the sheet Joseph had given her and tightly closed her eyes, it's just a dream, it's just a dream.

"The next coffin for John Marston is going to be for his actual death," John croaked breathing is a lung of the fresh night air.

"Why how many have you had?" Joseph chuckled, glad to see the man alive,

"Too many" John confirmed, stretching his legs over the side trying to get the blood pumping back into them.

"How's Rose?" John frowned, fearful of the answer, it was a cruel game to play on her but one that was definitely needed. His daughter didn't possess a poker face, every emotion was written clearly across that angelic face, if she had known the plan, she would have given it away, instantly. If John had died due to his own folly of taking too much of the deadly nightshade Theodore had given him, then she would have been devastated. It was best to let her think he died and let the chips fall where they may.

"Let me give you the once over, I managed to get the bullet out, but you're still at risk of infection." John rolled his eyes, that was the last thing he needed. He followed Joseph to the little makeshift camp, he tutted his disapproval at the disorganised mess and the limp tent he tried to erect. Rose was still, sleeping soundly on the floor.

"When this is over, you and Theodore are coming out west, I will show you how real men live." John took a seat and removed his shirt for inspection.

"When this is all over, I am going home, running a bath and staying in it for a week," Joseph chuckled, "Then I am going to try really hard to forget that I ever met you, John Marston."


	47. Freedom

The sunrise brought intolerable heat, her bones barely dropping below freezing in the coldest hours of the night. Rose felt secure, a comfort wrapped so delicately around her limbs, protecting her from all the evil and pain that consumed her every thought. The violence of her dreams sending her into tumults of terror, the screams had kept her captors awake most nights. Yet this night, her first of freedom had been almost peaceful, her terrors were just her imagination reacting to the intensity of her captivity, she was free to run, go home and sleep safe and sound in her bed.

The thought made her lips curl, as the serenity of dawn warmed along her rose-tinted cheeks, she traced her thin dainty fingers across the roughed palms that anchored her. The light rattles of breath chastely placed across her neck, the metronomic rhythms of slumber. She'd dare not open her eyes, for fear that her mind was once again playing tricks and this was all a dream. Instead, she snuggled in closer, pressing her back against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of life.

"Rose," His voice croaked with the rough timbre of sleepiness, it was never as smooth when he was fully alert, like gravel underfoot, but in the mornings, it took on an element of weakness. A voice so perfect she could never imagine not hearing it again. "I know you're awake,"

"We all assume to know John, I knew you were dead," She rolled around to face him, but couldn't open her eyes. "Yet here you are" She buried herself into his chest, his scent changed, Joseph cleansed his body, and now he had the aromas of soap, white ivory laced with medicinal tones, it wasn't John.

"I can explain everything, once you open your eyes," He pulled back, placing her raggedy blonde hair behind her ears. Rose's angelic face blushed, a smile so peaceful it could have ended wars. He felt the grip in his heart, the feeling of protection, of security, of fatherhood. All he needed was the reassurance in her deep blue eyes that she was alright, the damage from their separation could be repaired with patience and time. That she still wanted him by her side, as useless as he was at parenting, he needed confirmation that he was still her choice.

"I am never opening my eyes again," She buried herself back into the security of his arms. "What if this isn't real and never to be repeated."

"Ok, you get five more minutes and then we have to go," John chucked, having never received the warmth of unconditional love it was something he could get used to.

"Home," Rose mumbled into his chest, almost drifting again,

"Soon, we have one more thing to do," John rubbed along her back trying to relax her but also to keep her awake, she was a nightmare of grumpiness if she was allowed to sleep for too long.

"I want my bed," She whined like a baby, her voice tightening, as usual, tranquillity never lasted long with Rose, just denying her wishes was enough to elicit the growl of rage.

"I want my bed too," John confirmed, "But I want Arthur more,"

Rose snapped up, almost headbutting John as her eyes shot open and studied him for any hint of a lie, "Arthur, where is he? Is he coming home with us? Did you see him? Have you asked?" She rattled questions like an excited child on their birthday.

"You will open your eyes for him," John feigned disappointment. The realness of his presence not good enough to compete with the dream of Arthur. He couldn't deny, his vision of Arthur was too prominent, they were equal parts in each other's lives, and one-piece had been absent for far too long. It was time to build their whole.

Joseph made an admirable attempt and cooking breakfast, he, himself not in the best of moods, the outdoors didn't suit his distinguished expectations of comfort. John tried to manage the stiffness, his scar tissue ached and screamed from the new burning of his wound. He worried that infection was taking hold, the tightness was a sensation that was concerning, he couldn't confess this to Joseph who would have him bed-bound when his mission was not over.

"What's the plan, John," Joseph didn't make eye contact, focusing on his breakfast. The raking sound of his voice, full of trepidation and fear.

"The gang are camped near here, I am going to get Arthur back," John spoke with authority, not letting on that Arthur was no longer with the gang, Dutch saw to that, but he would be damned if they weren't going to reveal where he was. "You stay in town with Rose, send for Theodore, I am going to need you both back home with me."

"No chance," Rose kicked the dust and threw the remains of her breakfast, "I have only just got you back, I am not leaving you, John,"

"Rose," John said thoughtfully, "It's too dangerous, if I have one eye on you, then I can't give me full attention to getting Arthur back."

"If it is dangerous John perhaps it is best left," Joseph reasoned, "Go home and write to him, he knows where you are,"

"I am not leaving him, not again." John scowled petulantly at Joseph,

"And I am not leaving you," Rose added with her own petulant glare aimed at John.

"Well this is a solid stand-off; I am sure I know who will win." Joseph groaned reluctantly.

They said their goodbyes, Joseph lingering in his embrace, his eyes sorrowful saying all that needed to be said, he would send for his partner and wait for them in Rhodes, praying for their return. He imaged it would be the longest and most terrifying wait he could fathom. John suppressed the pain of mounting Jezebel, his health was by no means robust enough for this undertaking, he was reliant of fumes of energy and his heart that remained strong and beating for one man, the only man, Arthur. Joseph lifted Rose to him, she nestled in closer, feeling his warmth still overcome with the emotion of this chance, if John was going down in a blaze of gunfire, she was determined to be by his side. There was no future she would want to live without John Marston in her life.

"Please take the utmost care," Joseph grimaced, aware of who he was speaking to.

"You know me, safety is my middle name," John chuckled.

Jezebel set a brutal speed as they rode as the crow flies across the lush fields of Scarlet Meadows, it was still early, and few were about to see them fly. Rose gripped him tightly, not used to the pace. The grunts of Jezebel only broken by John's mutterings, his not so silent prayers that this was going to work, Arthur was still alive, and he could save him. The dismounted away from the path, Jezebel tethered to a tree in the thick brush of the words so no one could see her distinctive mottled coat. John carried Rose; fearful her strides would alert the camp to their presence.

He watched carefully from afar, it wasn't right, Micah and Dutch were still absent, the camp appeared dishevelled. There were harsh rumblings, Susan squawking and Mary-Beth returning the favour with her equally shrill voice. Whatever the argument, it had been raging for a day at least. Javier and Sean were nowhere to be seen, neither was the young boy Lenny. John scanned painfully for the sight of his father, Hosea, the man was reasoned and considerate, he would support John regardless of the turmoil ripping through camp. His best-laid plans were destroyed with the return of Dutch and Micah, minus Arthur.

"What's going on?" Rose whispered, John moved her behind a tree, crouched and pinned his stare so hard to her she sensed how serious this was.

"I need to talk to them," John said solemnly, "Some of them are not good people Rose, if anything happens you have to promise me to stay here, you can't come and help me,"

"But…" Her lips quivered, the seriousness, the fear, she couldn't deny him his request but couldn't watch him in danger. He pulled out his revolver, "If anyone other than a woman approaches you, Rose, you point this at them and shoot." John felt a twist of anguish, Charles and Hosea were potentially still in camp and could face their demise through his command, but he couldn't risk his angel falling into the hands of Dutch or Micah.

"Promise me, darling, you stay here, and you protect yourself," His stomach churned at the thought, "Joseph is in town waiting for us, you get back to him."

Rose began to cry silent tears; he ran his thumb across those cherub cheeks wiping away those delicate droplets. Taking a moment to drink in her beauty, his heart constricted, remembering the small child she once was and how he might not live to see her grow into the wonderful woman she was destined to be. He placed one final kiss on her forehead, her pouting face, a sign of her disapproval at him and his plan, he gave her a weak smile before he began his approach.

"Wait!" Rose screamed a pleading whisper. "I love you, Dad,"

John collapsed at her feet, pulling her tightly against him, his own tears beginning to fall. He inhaled her scent, felt the golden spun hair against his fingers one last time. This could be it, his end, he would have failed them all, but at least he tried. He approached the gathering mass of bodies now stood arguing around the campfire. The lines were clearly drawn, Mary-Beth, Susan and Charles stood defiant on one side, Micah and Dutch on the other.

"Where is Arthur, Dutch?" Susan shot a scornful malevolent glare at her former leader. As John crouched not to be seen, to listen and hope they confirmed Arthur's location. He could sneak back out without any of them being aware he was there and alive.

"He isn't coming back, why aren't you packed?" Dutch dismissed them, "And where is everyone else?"

"They left, Dutch," Charles responded, placing his thick arms around his chest, stepping in front of Mary-Beth "They didn't want to stay after what you did to Arthur,"

"You sick man, you hurt my boy," Susan riled, John hadn't seen the shotgun by her side, was too far away to stop her as she cocked the gun up towards Dutch. The explosion rumbled through the camp, sending birds screeching into the sky. John flew to her as Susan fell backwards, covered in blood.

"John," She gasped as he pulled her into him, holding her tight against his chest.

"It's ok, you're going to be ok," He desperately clambered his clammy hands, identifying the wound, placing pressure on it. Susan writhed in pain from the action, snaking her fingers along his, holding his hand, she was the camp doctor, she more than anyone knew the signs of a fatal gunshot wound. The world disappeared for him at that moment. It was just them, his adoptive mother appeared serene as her eyes turned glassy. He rocked her gently in his arms, trying to bring comfort and love to her last moments.

"You are a terrible liar John Marston," Her lips curled slightly, "You go get Arthur, and you bring him home safe." John snivelled, placing his chin tightly against her face. A trembling hand delicately traced along his cheek, leaving a trail of blood, as her last breaths cascaded from her body. Charles allowed them their moment, both his guns poised at Dutch and Micah, the pair equally armed had theirs trained on the three of them.

"What did you do?" John growled, pulling his own weapon and taking his place next to Charles.

"Come on now, John, be reasonable, we all want to walk out of here alive." Dutch's tone was remorseful, John wasn't buying it, the traitorous monster was biding his time, trying to save his own skin.

"I should leave you in the dirt to rot," John's eyes narrowed, while rusty he was still a better shot than both the men before him, trained by Arthur, he could kill them both and hope that his own wounds were manageable. He thought of Rose, he couldn't risk leaving her and Arthur, still didn't know where he was.

"Kill us and you kill Arthur," Micah piped up almost reading John's own thoughts,

"Where is he," John snapped, his voice full of rage.

"Now, Now John," Dutch grinned sensing the upper hand, "We will tell you where Arthur is; if you let us go,"

"No, you will pay for this, all of it." John tensed the grip on his gun ready to shoot, "I will see you hang for what you did to Arthur,"

Micah unloaded bullet after bullet, both John and Charles took the initial hit of his gun. Mary-Beth screeched in terror, prompting Charles to grab her and run. Charles was an ox of a man, a bullet wound merely slowing him, but he wouldn't be incapacitated for long. John slid behind a crate for protection as did Dutch. John's breath hitched, he checked his body, the bullet only grazed his arm, removing a fair chunk of flesh, but it was manageable. John tore a sliver of his shirt, wrapping it tight around his arm to stem the bleeding. His heart was jumping as he sought out the two men, they were all quick to use their ammo, not thinking of the consequences of being without. John reached for his revolver, realising he'd given it to Rose, time slowed as reality dawned on him, he was done for. With one bullet left, no sign of Charles, he couldn't fight off both men. John tipped his head to quickly see where both men were, Dutch was at two, Micah at ten. John couldn't kill both of them, he shot towards the one man whose death meant something, Dutch. The bullet ricocheted, sending the older man flying backwards, it was the death shot John hoped for, he was wounded but still moving. Micah instinctively knew John was out of bullets, and alone.

"Well, Well Marston, I clearly gave you too much credit," Micah approached John's position, the clink of his boots echoed as his arrogant stride approached his intended victim. "Not so capable without Arthur to save you."

The words stung, John rose with his hands up, this was no way he was going to die in the dirt. Micah, the snivelling piece of shit, had a smile as wide as the Dakota all over his face. "Arthur is in the care of Colm O'Driscoll; he will see to it you man has a slow and painful death." Micah cocked his gun, the barrel aimed right at John's head. "I won't be so sadistic; you can die quickly."

John squeezed his eyes shut, not wishing his last vision to be of the evil Micah Bell, he thought of Rose and Arthur, the fields in his dreams where they would all live in the afterlife, he thought of home. The gun fired, a roaring explosion and then a thud. Having been shot multiple times John was sure this was the bullet that killed him, he felt nothing, no burn or tear, no agonising pain, just weightlessness. Is this what death felt like? The absence of pain, nothingness, he repeatedly apologised in his mind for failing. A small gust of wind brought him back, his overwrought mind caught up, he opened one eye. Before him a vision scarier than any nightmare, his darling Rose, her face covered in blood and gunpowder, shaking with the gun now pointed at him, Micah Bell's body fallen between them. He stood still for what felt like an eternity, his breathing painful as he absorbed the full horror of what Rose had done, the danger she placed herself in, the risk, it was too unreal to fathom.

"He was going to shoot you," Rose quaked her justification, John reached forward, pulling the gun from her hand, ensuring safety for all of them. He knelt over Micah's dead body; a clean headshot right between the eyes. Arthur would have been proud of such accurate marksmanship, he wasn't, he was mortified by her actions, putting him before herself, that wasn't the plan. John grabbed both her arms tightly, his fingers unintentionally hurting her.

"When I tell you to do something, make sure you goddamn do it," His voice was flat, scary to Rose who was used to gravel and whining, she trembled under his tight touch. His eyes were wild, she stirred a fear in him she didn't know was possible, at that moment Rose could sense she had crossed a line, her father's true spirit was before her, the no-nonsense outlaw that could kill a man before breakfast. It was not her place to intervene, not her world, not with him. The man she saw before her was something else, if they were to return home, she had to listen to him, follow his instructions. She gulped, "I am sorry,"

Charles ran into the fray, having got Mary-Beth a safe distance away he returned to find the fight was all but over. Blood ran from his arm and shoulder; he wasn't in a good way. He scanned the scene, quiet and circumspect he waited on John's instruction. Sensing the outlaw was in no mood for counsel.

"Where's Dutch?" Charles said in his stern focussed voice, John shrugged pointing to the trail of blood leading into the woods, Dutch used the momentary lapse in proceedings to high-tale it out of there, like the mongrel he was.

"I am going after Arthur," John barked, pulling Rose over to Charles's firm hand. "You and Mary-Beth, I need you to take Rose to Rhodes, there is a doctor called Joseph Barnes waiting for her, he will see her home, get some treatment for that arm."

"I should come with you," Charles offered, not one for babysitting. There was no way John was going to be able to take on Colm's boys on his own.

"Dutch is still out there, I need her protecting," John chastised, impatient to the discussion. He ran to Arthur's tent, pulling out his favourite pelt and placing every possession the man held dear into them, biding them quickly with twine. The camp was dead, there would be no opportunity to return, there was no way John was leaving Arthur to live the rest of his life without the mementoes of his past.

"Your mad at me," Rose screamed from Charles forceful grip, John whistled shrilly, summoning his loyal girl, Jezebel.

"I am not mad at you Rose," John had no time to debate with her, he flashed her a glare that confirmed discussions around feelings and following instructions would be held back for a later date. "Look after these they are Arthur's" He forced the possessions into her hand, she almost tipped over from the weight.

"Hosea is out there looking for Arthur, he suspected Colm" Charles told him, looking him in the eye for acknowledgement.

"I will find him," John confirmed as he pushed Charles in the direction he emerged from, expecting Mary-Beth to be concealed and concerned for his whereabouts, "Now go,"

He watched Charles disappear into the woods with his daughter her was once again bawling with anxiety.

Jezebel flew towards him, no longer respecting the rules of the camp.

"Come on girl, let's go and get Arthur," John grimaced, the pain in his wounds throbbing, all he had was his grit to find and save the man he loved.


	48. Arthur's Atonement

The room was pitch black; the perpetual drip of water leaking, against the moist stone, broke his unconscious state. The stale odour of rotting mulch turned his stomach, making him wretch with bile. His ribs stung from the brutal assault. His mind, incapable of thought, neglecting to piece together the circumstances that led to captivity. As he moved, attempting to make himself comfortable, the rattle of chains alerted him to the torn skin on his wrists. They oozed with blood, tight and sore, restrained in shackles to the wall. He strained with what little might he possessed, they wouldn't yield. In the dimness, his watery eyes endeavoured to focus, to earn any perspective of where he was, and why? The sting of tears that failed to fall scorched and troubled his crestfallen eyes. 

"John" he wheezed as he plunged back toward a state of unremitting unrest. 

"Art, Art, you worthless waste of skin, wake up!" Arthur shot up rigid from his hunched position, cursing profanities as his body screamed from the swift movement. The clatter of his links drowning out the yells of discomfort. His bones shook, the sensation peculiar, not one he cared to admit feeling in a long time. That voice ushered anxiety not observed since adolescence, that resonance, those names, were forgotten to him for countless years, it couldn't be. He could detect tart whiskey and offensive hints of sweat. The owner practically based in his own noxious fluids. The putrid scent permeated through the darkness, disorientating Arthur's senses to point his eyes blazed from the onslaught, the man who wore that odour was not welcome. 

"Well, Son this is a fine mess you have gotten yourself into." Arthur's harassed blue orbs narrowed in the darkness, searching for a modicum of light that could enable his brain to process, was he alone? There was nothingness, blackness, emptiness, was this hell? The ethereal plain? Purgatory? He couldn't decipher, didn't want to choose or presume anything other than what he knew he deserved. All he could determine was that voice was wholly and absolutely unwanted. 

"Old Man," Arthur grumbled, licking his chapped, dry lips in an attempt to moisten them. Arthur's jaw stiffened, the tightness overpowering the bile that rested in his throat. Not even on his gravest days could he ever say he wished for this man's appearance back in his life. Arthur refused to leave himself mute around the unmerciful man that claimed to own the title father. That was his childhood, not who he was now. His father's scorn consumed and destroyed Arthur's loving nature, his artistic temperament, leaving him annihilated, a callous beast, a shell of a man. Yet, his father never removed his heart, which still prevailed, stubborn and unyielding. If the old man was back for round two, Arthur was ready, no longer a frightened little boy who would hide from his father's savageness.

"I am ashamed to call you my son," The apparition growled, staring down not at Arthur himself, but a small shuddering boy. His brown locks, alabaster skin, crushed sad eyes all but winced at the sound of his father's spiteful drawl. Arthur scrutinised the disturbance, reviving many similar experiences in his past, his Pa drunk, seeking him out to berate and blame. His greatest fear at that age was not death at his father's hand, no, passing over would have been a blessing. Following in that man's footsteps was his worst dread, one he warned himself of every day when he placed that gambler hat on his head.

As quickly as the commotion arrived, it dissipated into the grime. Arthur's chest swelled with uncertainty; his mood unable to prevent the trauma of reliving such hurt. His skin grew clammy with sweat and pallor ashen, this man could still take his power. _Not him, not now_, he cried in his mind, _not my final moments with him, please._ Arthur prayed to a god he had no right communicating with, was this his penance? His punishment for a life lived without valour? He bit hard against his cheek, trying to remain conscious. Forcing his mind to stay alert, not to induce the spectre of his father back again, not to draw any of them back again. The copper taste of blood tingled across his taste buds, he was hurting himself but was numb to the injury, his body ceased acknowledging, was too far withdrawn. He slipped once again into the delirium of unconsciousness, his mind conjuring the obscenest images, the hurt, the damage, Dutch.

The light scorched his eyes, he squinted and adjusted, was this an angel dazzling him with their rays. He coughed, striving to manoeuvre himself away from the streams of intense glow. It was proving challenging, the lack of nourishment, his adrenaline quitting, leaving him stiff and cramping, too inflexible to organise any defence against those who owned him in bonds. His eyes eventually opened, discovering a window slit, full of filth and cobwebs sat high on the opposite side of the room, he was in a cellar, that was apparent. At least it was confirmation he was alive, facing humans and not his final judgement. Hell would have to wait. Arthur tried to remember what transpired, all he could discern in his mind was John, shot, dead. A frail breath of heartbreak fled his lips, causing a plumb of loose earth to rise above him. He ignored his present, choosing to dredge his distorted images to piece together what occurred. Arthur couldn't feel a head injury, didn't have the pounding ache or dizziness. His lost memory concerned him, indicating events so profoundly unpalatable that his mind sealed itself from remembering. 

Unwitnessed by Arthur the dust swirled and danced in the sunbeams, forming a face, it's likeness to his own was uncanny. Was it the same boy from his childhood? So bonny and adorable, those eyes, his eyes, staring back at him, full of untold misery and distress. Yet slowly, a smile of recognition crossed the boy's face, a grin that garnered the same reaction from Arthur, all toothy and happy. It made Arthur's collapsing chambers pump, trying to live for the remaining moments to see his son again.

"Papa," His angelic tones were so pure and loving. Arthur cried out in joy, his boy. Unchanged over time, his thin mop of blonde hair falling soft against his forehead, his little limbs so small and creamy white. His clothes neat and perfectly pressed, his mother never let him go without, his father worked hard to give him the best. Arthur cherished every inch of him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

"Papa," The name rolled perfectly. His ears savoured the sound washing over him like a warming wave of tranquillity, he pleaded with his soul, longing to hear it repeated. Arthur strained forward, craving flesh to touch, those little limbs so supple and pliant. To accommodate those arms around his neck, hold that tiny frame securely against his own bulk, to smell his fragrance, clean and innocent. That is how Arthur wanted to die, holding his most precious gift, his boy. The chains tightened as he stretched forward, no amount of discomfort was going to stop him from embracing his son. Together they would walk into the afterlife, hand in hand, where they belonged.

"Isaac," A curt voice barked full of fury and aggression. Arthur was wrenched from his heavenly dream, he cried out "My boy," as Isaac's shadow disappeared behind another forming character, blurring into the darkened void.

"Stay, Isaac," Arthur croaked as his son hid from him. His expression morphing from one of love and devotion to mistrust and doubt as he retreated behind a fearsome apparition. Arthur shot a glance to the visitor, sensing they didn't possess the same affection and tenderness delivered in his boy's expression. He scarcely recognised Eliza, her face twisted and grimacing, her clothes shredded and ragged, a dichotomy to the woman she once was. Eliza may not have been gifted an abundant life, but she retained her dignity in her appearance. Even her golden locks were matted with blood, it dripped along her face, ghastly to witness but Arthur would not turn away. 

The fearsome spirit who embodied his meek and mild Eliza bore her anger aptly. Arthur was man enough to meet that rage. Arthur instinctively grasped for them both, in his arms all the wariness would evaporate, they could be a family again. The din of the chains reminded him of his imprisonment, he didn't have the stamina to break them. Once again failing to protect his family or to hold them in his final moments. A fate worse than his frightful nightmares, he was so close, but still, it was not enough.

"He doesn't deserve our love Isaac; we didn't receive his love when it mattered most!" Eliza shouted with the fierceness of a thousand hell hounds, her thin lips contorting into a snarl. She was growing, her wild wrath creating a thunderous atmosphere in such a confined space. Beams flickering around her in bursts of unspent resentment and bitterness. 

A deafening noise screeched, causing Arthur to cup his ears and scream, begging for forgiveness, pleading for the end. He sealed his eyes shut wishing her away, then fell, crushed by the thought, even in this form he nevertheless loved her, always wanted her by his side. He inhaled a deep breath, dragging his grit from the depths of his substance, determined to battle for them. 

"No!" Arthur screamed in distress, pulling at his chains until his wrist throbbed and bled 

"I love you, my boy, I love both of you" Arthur searched desperately for his son, deciding to ignore the hostile spirit of Eliza. 

"Why didn't you save us, papa" Isaac hardly visible, hiding, terrified of his own mother's demeanour, his own father's disloyalty. His tone was evolving with every repetition of those damning statements, no longer sweet, innocent, it was filled with persecution, accusatory challenges to Arthur's faults as a father, his greatest crime. Isaac's voice that of a male's, shifting with every sound into the man he would never become. Arthur began to cry, honest, frustrated tears, the snivelling sounds of suffering, deafening him as his chest heaved to receive air into his mangled lungs. His troubled tears descended cold along his dirty cheeks, spit and snot fell as he crumbled; his face planted into the dirt, too exhausted to protest. Arthur implored for his life to end, to disappear to hell, where he was sure none of those, he loved dearest would inhabit. He could take his punishments, as long as they were absent.

"Because he didn't love us as much as him," Eliza finally answered her son's lingering question, her long emaciated finger pointed to the corner. She took Isaac by the hand as they sunk into oblivion, leaving nothing but the sodden grime filled wall in their place. Arthur blinked, this couldn't be real, of all the ways to die; this was not the prospect he would have chosen. Trapped in his own judgments, locked in his past reliving his worst transgressions. From the shadows, a black mass emerged. His sharp hips swaggered with defiance, his wolf eyes fixed on Arthur, filled with harm, treachery, but unlike the others he was alive.

"John" Arthur mouthed a whisper, peering through his misery at his lover approached.

"How could you, Arthur?" John dropped on his haunches, his eyes devouring the sight of the pathetic outlaw. John leaned forward, cupping his chin in his palm. His heat, warmth, set Arthur's skin of fire, John was real, he was here with him, alive. Arthur pleaded for the sensation to continue. John's touch was enough, always enough, he needed reassurance, to be held tightly in his lover's arms and told it was permitted to depart. Arthur's core melted at that furrowed brow, the plumpness of his cupid bow lips, pink and moist, his sharp-angled cheekbones moulding his striking features. John was not the most alluring of men, but his attentive, observant expressions had Arthur hooked and addicted from the moment he set sights on him. He would sacrifice all his possessions for one last taste. 

"What kind of father sacrifices his own son," John pushed him violently away, jolting Arthur's head against the hard brick wall. The brick crumbled at the force, a dusting of masonry landing in his dishevelled hair. The impact hurling a dizzying jolt through his spine. John kicked dust into his grimacing face, stinging his eyes. Arthur released a deep sigh and remained silent, this is what he deserved, this was his hell. There was no point in resisting it, quarrelling with it or hoping it wasn't real. Arthur gazed at John, mustering all the sorrow and apologies he could find without speaking, Arthur didn't have the words to make this anger abate. John needed his reticence, the doe would return, it always did.

"I wish I never met you, Arthur Morgan," His temper was grim, his acerbic words mixed with melancholy. John was expressing his genuine sentiments, years of regret and loss at the whims of Arthur Morgan. Arthur couldn't allow it to be true.

"No, John," Arthur implored, begged, his chest heaving, trying to breathe. Arthur deserved this, all their scorn, all their grief, it was because of him, all his wrongdoing. His stomach knotted and twisted, pulling him down into a shuddering mess of turmoil and defeat. No one was working to save him from that which he earned through a lifetime of mistakes. Arthur could have cared for and loved each one of them; if he hadn't been so selfish; if he didn't protect Dutch. Instead, he executed his choices, and now he was forced to atone. The spirts required their pound of flesh, Arthur relented permitting them to exercise their desires.

"Now their deaths are on my conscience," John's voice raked, his gravel timbre tore through Arthur's heart. "I will have to live with that for eternity, all because of you, your decisions, your mistakes, my life would have been better without you, Arthur Morgan."

"I am sorry," Arthur whimpered, his eyes closing restlessly, no longer able to look upon his loved ones and the misery he caused them. He tried to conceive good memories; the nights spent under the stars. He honoured their love by conversing with them, by staying with them, his night time family. Those celestial orbs that would burn long after his body turned to ashes. Their hatred was never forthcoming during those occasions spent together, they loved him and missed him. 

"Our lives would have been better without you, Arthur," John and Eliza said in unison, droning over and over.

"M' sorry," Arthur declared in response to their claims, his voice weak and depressed. His body shrinking into the filth as he lost all ability to fight, the only notion that kept him moving all these years was his belief in their forgiveness, now he was proven wrong.

"Why didn't you save us, Papa," Isaac continued his mantra, his unanswered question, booming from his masculine voice, his slack drawl similar to Arthur's own.

"M' sorry," Arthur repeated until he slipped back into his nightmares. The scowling face of Dutch prominent as he was set upon in that shack, its realness too present to deny. Dutch's destructive touch scorching his skin, he relived every unmerciful thrust until he wretched unable to accept the vision any longer.

Arthur awoke in the darkness, a dainty foot prodding at him. Pale and shimmering, like an angel, had he finally passed? The injury in his chest was excruciating, his ribs were absorbing the strain of his emotional outbursts. He didn't trouble to check himself, expecting there to be a level of internal bleeding. His stomach rumbled from emptiness which was always a sign he was still functioning. Death stalked near, his heart willing it to take him soon. Lost in the present, he failed to notice those sparrow eyes, pinch, no longer satisfied with being ignored.

"John and I could have been happy, married if it wasn't for you, Arthur Morgan." There were only eyes, watching, waiting for a response that would never come. Arthur already knew that Beth, John's Beth, the woman that John fell for so many years ago. The woman who Arthur greedily took his own taste, would never have John's heart. Arthur was confident as the day was long that the real Beth comprehended that, she shielded John and his inclinations, concealed them from the world until John was ready. Nothing this spectre claimed or said would ever convince him that Beth anticipated any more from John than companionship. The sparrow eyes morphed, their colour turning from the warm brown to striking emerald green.

"He never let go of you, I gave him a home, a job, security, but it was never good enough, I shall be waiting for you in hell Arthur Morgan." For the first time, Arthur smirked, if Giorgio was waiting for him, he would happily accept the invitation. He'd rather spend eternity in hell beating the sadistic face of Giorgio, John's abusive lover, than forever hearing the disappointment from those he held dearest. Giorgio cackled at the fierce determination in Arthur's eyes, disappeared into the blackness only to be replaced by someone Arthur had no recollection of. The woman was beautiful but stern, her hair was well-groomed, features healthy, her rigid back and covering frock eluded to propriety and decorum. In her arms, she held a bundle, barely visible in the layers of swaddling wrapped so expertly around its tiny form. The woman cooed and rocked gently, whispering cherished words. For the first time since the spirits started their visits, Arthur was perplexed, confused, with his mind still bold from Giorgio's intrusion, Arthur spoke first.

"Who are you, ma'am," Arthur said benevolently, "What brings you to this to place?"

The spirit didn't respond, unable to take her eyes from her cherished bundle of joy. She shifted and swayed so mesmerising that Arthur didn't sense her approach until she was eye level with him, her irises a swirl of sorrow and angst,

"My child died in my arms, cut from my own dying body, it's your fault, Arthur Morgan," Arthur repelled in horror, he couldn't, he wouldn't ever have hurt a woman or her child, "If John didn't love you, we would be with him now, safe, a family."

Arthur choked, gasped for air, _not John's baby, please no_, he cried out at the terror. The spectre of Clara placed the bundle in his arms, the stillness rocked him, sending shivers down his spine. A tear fell as Arthur pulled back the shawl wrapped, so snug, the small closed eyes, button nose, cupid bow lips, a tuft of soft black hair, his tiny features cold to Arthur's touch. Arthur held him close, trying to warm him back into existence, he was perfect, he was John's.

"All these people whose lives you have broken Arthur." John placed his hand on his shoulder, not from force or anger, it was soft, caring. His aroma of pine and earthy heady nature relaxed Arthur, reminding him of better days when they were inseparable. 

"It's time to go, Arthur," It distressed Arthur to see John not able to acknowledge his own baby, as though they were separate entities in time. Arthur grasped at John's hand and looked up, his eyes were doe, his features younger, all sharp and angled, John the boy was with him. He held John's baby aloft, willing John to look down. The spirt of John would not be propelled into recognition, his brow furrowed, as he studied Arthur. It was a long time since Arthur had seen that boy, scared and alone, there was only one thing that would soothe him.

"Please don't leave me," Arthur whispered a plea, tenderly placing his hand around John's neck, kneading and massaging until he became pliant under his touch. John ran his cold thin finger down Arthur's cheek, nuzzling into his neck, guiding Arthur's arm from his neck until it was firmly around his waist, safe and secure. Arthur rocked them lightly, John the boy in one arm, John's baby in the other.

"I love you, papa," Isaac placed the sweetest kiss on Arthur's forehead, he was warm, his scent beautiful in the dank basement. Their eyes met for a moment, full of affection and worship for each other. Arthur released a quivering breath of acceptance, his heart aching, he swept forward and pulled Isaac in closer, nestling him between John and the baby.

"I'm sorry my boy's, I am so sorry," Arthur murmured, again and again, placing delicate kisses on each of their foreheads, pulling them tight to his chest as they drifted off to sleep.

"Jesus," Arthur shot his eyes open from the cackled call. Disorientated, he searched desperately for his boys, they were gone, this was different, this was real. 

"I thought about shooting you where you stood, but you don't deserve a quick death." Arthur's eyes were once again blinded by daylight, the man before him was fuzzy, indistinct, but he recognised that voice anywhere.

"Colm" Arthur grumbled, wishing for the spirits to come back, anyone was preferable to Colm O'Driscoll.

"I decided to let you sweat down here for a bit, while I thought of the most torturous, painful way to kill you." Colm inched closer, the rotting stench of his unwashed clothes made Arthur wretch, his breath sour and stale crept up Arthur's skin. Arthur lunged, knowing full well his bonds wouldn't break. He couldn't let Colm see that he was tamed, his self-preservation and single-mindedness kicking in. He would not die by the hands of the murderous snake Colm O'Driscoll. There were far more significant people in his life that deserved the honour of being present at his end.

Colm threw his sweaty palm against Arthur's heated neck, pinning him to the wall. A slick calm whisper of intent left his lips, a confession, "Nothing in my imagination could hurt you more than your own mind, you have some dark demons consuming you, Arthur Morgan."

Arthur's breath hitched, his throat burning from the pressure. His body, mind, betrayed him in his hour of most need. His greatest nemesis now had the key to his destruction, not played out on Arthur's terms. His experience, his movements, too quick for the likes of Colm and his boy's. Arthur was confident in a good old shoot out, gunfight, even a duel, but Colm now understood defeat for Arthur was in his own mind.

"So, I will allow them to finish the job for me," Colm snickered, releasing Arthur from his chokehold. He coughed and spluttered, gasping for air. 

"I will leave you with one last ghost to haunt you, one I am sure you have forgotten, but I never have." Colm stood in the entrance of the basement, leaning against the doorframe. 

"Callum O'Driscoll, my nephew, killed by your hand in a duel in Valentine, maybe ten years ago now. My sister never got over losing him, died of a broken heart, I am sure she has a few choice words for you." Colm chucked a trinket, landing a few inches from Arthur's feet. He looked down at the face, the boy, the young O'Driscoll that reminded Arthur of John, should have been spanking his ass not duelling with him. There it was, the answer to all of it. Arthur's rage, his inability to follow the righteous path, he was too crushed and cocky. That boy died not because of his own quick mouth or his O'Driscoll loyalties. Callum was killed because Arthur was hurting, craved others to feel similar pain to own. To be haunted by the never-ending torture of loss. The boy was lucky to perish, Arthur was jealous, he wasn't allowed to die, too cowardly to take his own life, to loyal to leave.

"I imagine Hell will be a picnic in comparison to that head of yours," Colm said solemnly. His face sunk, plagued by his own demons who were knocking at the door. "You will receive relief soon but not before one final punishment."

Colm sauntered up the stairs of the basement, his men casting shadows as they waited for their leads. Arthur gulped, fearful of what that punishment was, he remained still. He was damned if he wasn't saving every last ounce of energy to fight off those sick bastards. His mind was racing, taking him back to dark places where men leered over him, touching him. The crash and subsequent thud made him jump, his nerves already frayed, they couldn't take much more. The basement doors locked, removing the light, casting him back into the gloomy darkness, only the window was enough to see what lay before him.

"Hosea!" Arthur screamed; the crumbled body of his father lay at the foot of the stairs. Blood pooling from his head. "Hosea, wake up," Arthur cried out, piecing together enough to know the man that raised him, cared for him and showed unending love and loyalty was no longer there. Arthur lunged for him to pull him near, the strain of the chains on his wrists was too crushing. Arthur fell backwards, defeated, his mind shutting down, unable to contemplate existence, another cherished being gone because of him, it was all his fault. Arthur prayed death would come quickly.

The concept of time failed him, only duskiness confirmed it was twilight again, the coldness suggested nearer to dawn than dusk. Arthur's body heat evaporated, his breathing shallow and laboured. He dipped in and out of consciousness, too exhausted to even conjure a morose memory, he was left with emptiness.

"Arthur," Hosea's voice called to him, he couldn't move. The old man stood before him, his regal poise alluding to a much younger and witty man.

"Hosea," Arthur's throat was swollen, his lips dense and dry, "You're alive," he whispered his drawl, his heavy lids constantly blinking as his eyes rotated backwards.

"No, Arthur, I brought someone to you," Hosea said forlornly, guiding the hand forward. She was beautiful, an aurora of warm light emanated illuminated her body. Her silk clothes hung daintily from her delicate shoulders, dark curls of hair set tightly in a bun, the odd strand falling across her milk-white skin. A smile so intoxicating Arthur drank every drop offered. This was an angel, her divine presence overwhelmed Arthur, no longer feeling pain or hurt, his anguish subdued. Arthur was drawn to her face, caring and unjudging,

"Mama, I'm sorry," He burst into the most heartfelt tears, ones he could only recall crying when he was a child when his mother offered comfort to a grazed knee or a bumped head. He flew towards her crouching body, placing his chin firmly against her collar, nuzzling close, her aroma of lavender was calming. He grasped tightly at her silk dress determined never to let go, never again. "I have been a bad man, mama," Arthur mumbled into his mothers' soft, warm skin, confessing his sins.

"Shhh, my boy," Arthur's mother cooed, pulling his bulk close into her long slender arms. "You are a good man Arthur Morgan, and I am proud of you," She let him cry his tears, tremble under her touch, feel her warmth and presence. 

"You had a lot of awful luck my son, but you stayed strong, loyal, so many felt your love" She cupped his face tenderly, her hazel eyes catching his own, 

"Are you ready now my son, there is a lot of people waiting to see you again?" She rose, poised with the dignity, she held her perfect soft hand out to his. Hosea stepped back into view, an encouraging, knowing smile on his face, this was it, Arthur was ready.


	49. The Outlaws Return

John was sweating so severe he was positive he was running a fever, caressing the skin of under his clavicle, discovering it hot and oozing. _Damn_, he snapped to himself, unpacking a bottle of ointment Joseph had supplied him, pouring it haphazardly over the injury. He didn't have time to stop and cleanse the offending area properly. Having ridden Jezebel hard north, skirting cautiously around Emerald Ranch, following the direction Dutch and Micah had taken. John lamented his inadequate tracking skills, Arthur would have discovered him, would have pinpointed his location boldly and rescued him without breaking a sweat. Why couldn't John possess that man's efficient and lethal focus? He tried and failed to harness his inner Arthur, his hunter. All he received was those loving raindrop eyes, smooth drawl tones, suggestive smile, it made John tingle all over and then frown worryingly. 

Arthur couldn't be a memory to him; he couldn't countenance his world without his man in it. He refused to falter, kept driving forward, relying on his heart to lead him. If Arthur was alive, John would find him, save him and take him home. It was during the nausea of his fear, he stopped at a crossroads, his options were north farther into the heartlands and up to Ambarino, or West to Valentine. John smirked, he wasn't Arthur, would never be as proficient or skilful as the great man. He was John _bloody_ Marston. If John was confident about anything, if Dutch Van Der Linde took Arthur north, that isn't where Dutch left him. Digging deep, so deep his own head hurt, he found his inner voice, his quick-tongued Johnny boy, the one that always got scoffed at for asking stupid questions, making foolish suggestions, the genius that cut-through the bull. His appearance, his swagger and sway were readily dismissed by most people. Still, John had an uncanny ability to perceive and read what other's intended, identify the strategy in play, even if the men who developed the tactics failed to understand them themselves. His target was Colm O'Driscoll, there could only be one spot he would stay.

Colm O'Driscoll was a man of habit, he lacked the imagination to linger in a little-known hidey-hole, preferring his homely comforts, locations he frequented for years. Hanging Dog Ranch was abandoned. Previously owned by some peculiar Norse men who spoke an odd language. John remembered it well; if they weren't buying tools from the isolated men, they were trading cards and pelts. Arthur was surprisingly agreeable with people, considering his bulk and intimidating glare. Some, not all, could discern the honest, warm man that lay behind those steely eyes. None more than John. He did not care to think where the Norse men went, probably slaughtered by Colm and his men. If John was aware of this place, having been out of the gang life for years, he couldn't fathom why the Pinkertons weren't on their tails. Probably didn't suit them, Dutch was their one and only, Dutch and Arthur. John was watchful; when the worst scumbag to ever grace the planet rocked up in the state, he chose to call home, John made damn sure he was equipped and ready. He was positive any outlaw worth their skin would have done the same. John was the best outlaw he knew; besides Arthur, he made it his business to monitor Colm O'Driscoll's favourite hide-out. 

John rode the torturous journey to Arthur, stopping briefly in Valentine for a break. His mind felt clear, always was when his focus was purely on his man. John recognised this had death wish written all over it, hell even with an army he might struggle to take on Colm's boys, rabid dogs that they were. All he had was himself, and hopefully, a wiry old man who couldn't shoot straight. 

"God Hosea, I hope you had the same thoughts," John croaked, kneeling at the untidy grave of Beth, clearing the debris, observing the decay of the headstone, all weather-beaten and stained. John traced his fingers across the barely readable indents, her name, date of death, such a modest memorial for a beautiful life. John arranged some wildflowers; as he'd done the day he discovered his friend dead. _Feels like a lifetime ago_, a shiver ran up his spine, could this be what it feels like? If Arthur dies will he tend his grave ten years later and barely remember the sight of him, his touch and taste, that booming laugh. Is that what times does, takes every memory until there is none left. John shook his head, there was no life without Arthur, he tried so goddamn hard and failed every time. This might be certain destruction, but that was preferable to surviving without him. "_I might be seeing you sooner than you think_," he said absentmindedly to the gravestone. He laughed so hard at the pretext of it all he began to cough, a deep hacking cough.

It was long into the night when John arrived in Big Valley, he headed north, skirting along the Grizzlies to achieve the best vantage point of Hanging Dog ranch. The southern entrance was too flat, and anyone on lookout would notice him coming a mile off. John struggled, the air grew thinner in the hills south of the Grizzlies, that, or his body was grappling to fight his infection. John stalked up the ridge, positioning himself so he could monitor the Ranch from afar. Sweat ran slick down his brow, dampening his hair, sticking to his skin. The cold night air was unbearable, he required warmth, rest if he was going to save his man. _Arthur's rescue party may need rescuing himself_, John thought to himself. He gasped, a shooting pain causing him to stumble from Jezebel. John convulsed, choked and rolled; an excruciating shooting pain tore up his left-hand side. He grasped his ribs tightly, biting the scream from his lips, willing the strain to ease. In the eerie stillness of the night, the stars sprinkled vast and scattered across the cloudless blackened sky. He stole a moment, collecting his wits, centring himself. Beyond that ridge, his worst nightmares lay. Taking on Colm single-handed was an impossible feat, Arthur could already be dead, the Pinkertons could be moving in. The worst thought of all, nothing, no Colm and no Arthur. John didn't have the energy to persist, to search and hunt; if Arthur was not in that Ranch, then John would roll over and die, chase his man into the afterlife.

"Rose," he said begrudgingly, sensing her scowl at his weakness. She wouldn't allow him space to have such morose thoughts if she was with him. He searched the stars feeling a similar impatient glare. He smirked, "I'll get him back, give a man a few minutes of reproach you impatient bastards." He grumbled in his gravelly drawl, welcoming reassuring winks and twinkles from the celestial orbs.

The tweeting of songbirds jarred him awake. His head pulsating uncomfortably, his worst hangovers were less extreme than this. Even when Susan clattered loudly nearby to punish him for his exuberance, what he would sacrifice to travel back to such innocent times. Tracing his fingers across the dirt, he found his water, draining the dregs from the fabric container. It failed to alleviate the pounding. The heat from his side was spreading. If he was going to save Arthur, he would have to go now. John stumbled up, his plan to strike at dawn lost by his failure to stay awake. His clothes were damp with morning dew, his teeth clattered from the lack of heat, he coveted the fire he failed to build the evening before. John pulled out his binoculars in the crisp morning air and began to study the O'Driscoll men's movements, counting their numbers. He would have to strike at them with a fury he'd only seen one-man harness before. Arthur was capable of controlling the devil to get the job accomplished, John needed to do the same. A sly movement caught his observation, not from the men who were gathered around the pot having breakfast. No, to the east a small, wiry frame leapt, or maybe delicately pitched, across the decrepit structure of the fence.

"What you up to old man," John mumbled, he was too far away to enter into this plan. Intrigued by Hosea's intentions, John traded his binoculars for his rifle with the scope. He took a few minutes to position himself to have eyes back on Hosea but eventually was able to follow his every footstep. Hosea carefully and cautiously stalked behind the buildings, crouching low as he made his way towards the big barn at the back of the Ranch. John slid to the left, getting a better angle as the old man appeared to discover what he was looking for

"A basement." John let out a whisper of acknowledgement. A grumbling commotion alerted John. It was Colm, kicking the breakfast pot over and barking orders. Two men rose and were heading Hosea's way. A quick glance confirmed the old man was grappling with the lock. John took a deep breath; he could start shooting, but there were far too many of them. John waited; Hosea could hear the men coming and darted into the barn doors, not willing to be caught in the act. A yell confirmed Hosea had been found. John watched as Hosea was hauled towards Colm, the men were out in the open, easier to pick off. They kicked Hosea down to his knees, his two captors placing a thick palm on each shoulder, forcing him to stay. Words were spoken, but John couldn't read lips or their expressions from this distance. Hosea held his hands up to Colm, begging. The monster was too busy bombastically pacing to read anything into the gesture. Hosea stopped, John could swear he was looking him dead in the eye, then he nodded.

John got five decent shots off in a row before any of Colm's men could react. He'd taken out the two foot-soldiers who had Hosea pinned down, allowing the man to reach for his own gun. John swung his weapon to the right, removing the watchman in the tower, giving himself time to evade his own capture. He returned his weapon to the scene, removing two further men who had Hosea pinned behind a crate. This was going better than he expected. Colm moved like a ghost, placing the barrel of his revolver tight against Hosea's head. The old man froze, dropping his own weapon instantly. John fidgeted and rolled, trying to get a better aspect, but it was impossible. Hosea's small frame was just enough to act as a shield to Colm O'Driscoll. 

"Lower your goddamn weapon," Colm said arrogantly "Don't think I can't see that scope shining in the sunlight." John placed his weapon down, resting it on his foot in case he needed it quickly. Colm couldn't see him from there.

"Why don't you come down here, John, we can talk it out like real men," Colm shouted, his words echoing across the Valley. "I will tell you where Arthur is?"

"How did you know it was me?" John responded, might have been a stupid question in most people's eyes, but John wasn't interested in discourse with Colm O'Driscoll, he was playing for time. 

"Listen to him John, you need to save Arthur," Hosea shouted, receiving a swift strike to the face from Colm's gun.

"Where is he, Colm?" John played along, the two men who found Hosea were dead, and Colm hadn't worked out that they already found the basement. This little play with Hosea merely strengthened Colm's hand, unfortunately for Colm, the deck was already tampered with.

"Dutch said you would come for him;" Colm chortled to himself, "I am sorry to tell you this, but he is already dead." Colm gripped Hosea tightly by the neck, John couldn't see his expression but knew from his few interactions the punch line was about to come. John flicked his foot, driving his weapon into the air.

The crack shot through him so quickly he didn't have time to react. Hosea slumped forward as Colm ran for cover. John dropped positioning his rifle, managing to get a few rounds into the ground, making Colm's feet dance. He cried out a yell of animalistic rage, it bounced around that Valley so hard that when it returned to his ears, he didn't recognise it as his own. A pain like no other tore through him so deep, not Hosea. He wanted to curl up and grieve for the only man he could call father, but his position was known. John pulled his weapon over his back, mounted Jezebel and rode so fast even she was doubtful they would make it over the rugged terrain. This wasn't time to regroup, Colm knew he was coming for him, sneaking up hadn't worked so now John was going walk straight in there and take back what was rightfully his. John paced north long enough to be sure no one was following. He pulled out a bandolier, placing over his shoulder and under his arm, the damn thing was heavy. John checked his revolvers, placed his Carbine repeater and Litchfield over his back. John readied four bottles of whiskey, placing the torn cloth in them, his tactics, distract and attack. Finally, he put his bandana over his face, leaving his wolfish eyes visible. Colm knew who he was but the mess he was about to make, he couldn't afford anyone else seeming him for the wanted posters. John was ready.

John could see them, ready and waiting, concealed behind crates, sacks, and whatever cover they could find. He knew some would be positioned high, one in the loft of the barn, the second floor of the house, another man in the watchtower to replace the man he'd shot. John needed to get high but still be able to see, there were two men at the back of the barn, one either side, peeking out away from him. They were expecting him from the south, idiots, so he came in through the north. Their tactics were stupid, fanning out in front of the barn just confirmed Arthur was in that basement. It was another time John wished he paid attention to Arthur, throwing knives or a bow and arrow would be just the stealthy attack required. He could have stealthily killed the two men, accessed the cellar and got him and Arthur out before they noticed. _Where was the fun in that_, John smirked under his bandanna. Instead, he lit two of his bottles and threw both at the same time, hitting both men simultaneously. The loud crashing of glass and the guttural screams as both men went up in flames greeted his arrival. _Let the games begin_. 

John kicked the barn door, shooting the expected soldiers that stood at the other end of the barn. He instantly looked up to see the silhouette of a man, swinging around, in his hands, _what the…._ The whizzing sound of Gatling gun had John diving, his hiding place, a stall, its flimsy wood panel wouldn't sustain those bullets for long. He sweated it out for a moment, trying to think over the thunderous sound of the gun. John hadn't factored military-grade weaponry into the mix. He needed a distraction, reaching for his third bottle, he lit and threw it next to a pile of hay. It went up like a bonfire, smoke quickly billowed, blinding the man with the Gatling gun as it was drawn out through the open hatch. John took the opportunity to shoot the man, his body lurching and then thudding to the ground below. The barn was probably surrounded by now, this was it, do or die. The fire was chocking the air, making it hard to breathe, he coughed as his lungs inhaled the thick, acidic smoke, stabbing his already aching body. John climbed the ladder to the platform, he might only be one man, stuck in a barn on fire, with a suspected infection and fever, but he had a Gatling gun. John crouched low, most of the smoke going over his head. 

He peeked out of the smoked fill hatch, none of the men he noted earlier were still in their spots. Clearly, all had taken positions around the barn, waiting for him to be smoked out. A whizz of a bullet deafened his ear, he fell backwards, the burning sensation in his face confirmed a gash along his cheek as he padded the blood with his fingers. _Forgot about you_, John said to himself, remembering the lookout tower, he took hold of the Gatling gun, it was sturdy and robust,_ let's see what you can do_. John aimed it to the watchtower, it rattled and hummed, the vibrations making him giddy with excitement. Wood splintered from the relentless pounding of bullet after bullet against it. John stopped; the loud gun fell silent just in time to hear the creaking of the tower as it began to buckle, "Timber" John shouted sarcastically as the full weight of the wooden platform lurched over and crashed. Like rats on a sinking ship, man after man ran, trying to avoid being crushed by the weight of the tower. John was waiting, laying lower, his repeater poised, picking each one off on the right-hand side of the barn. "Now for the left," he said, turning his attention back the Gatling gun, he drove those bullets the length of the barn, hearing screams and shouts as it splintered the wood, rays of beautiful light emitting from the holes being left. He repeated the sweeping motion three times before the fire became too outrageous to abide.

John considered he caused enough chaos to initiate his last stand, he jumped from the barn, landing on a poor excuse for a hay bale, pain shooting up his left leg. He scrambled, hobbling, pulling himself behind some creates, readied his revolvers and waited for the next onslaught.

"You ain't getting out of here alive, John Marston," Colm shouted, he was close, but John couldn't see him.

"Say's who," John shouted back, a bullet hit near him, the shooter was to the left.

"Say's me," John heard the growl so near he couldn't believe it. He took his last bottle, lit it and threw it. The shooter to his left instantly revealed himself not realising it was a decoy, John leapt up and shot him straight between the eyes before turning. Behind him were three men, including Colm, cocked and loaded. John didn't hesitate, never had, quickest reactions of any gunslinger, the two either side of Colm were down before they had a chance to blink. His third bullet, primed for Colm, hit the man below his shoulder, his gun flying out of his hand. John's aim disrupted by Colm's own shot hitting him in the leg. Both collapsed, Colm's wound pumped blood so scarlet it had to be fatal.

"It's over, Colm," John said, exhausted.

"This ain't over until I say it's over," Colm snarled "You won't get your boy back if I am dead, John." John gave a thoughtful look to the greasy snarling man, he grimaced so hard from the pressure he was putting on his shoulder his eyes bugged out of his sockets. Even though John was sure the wound Colm was carrying was fatal, he had to give it to the man, he was still bartering for his life. Suppose a leader of men, has to possess an inability to know when to quit, even if they are an asshole.

"I don't need you to tell me where Arthur is" John confessed, watching the colour drain from the man's face. "I already know,"

John watched Colm O'Driscoll play the only hand he had left; he was indeed a dog that didn't know when to lay down and die. He jumped towards his discarded gun; John shot him in the head. John knew that Colm would never expect John to set the barn on fire if he knew Arthur was underneath it. What idiot would risk their lover's life, entrapping them in a blaze?

"This idiot," John said grimacing. He tenderly got to his feet, his leg, numb and drenched in blood. Thankfully, Colm had shot the busted leg, so he was still able to lean his weight on the good one. John began to drag his sorry carcass towards the cellar door, his head was swimming, fading, his eyes were blurred, unconsciousness knocking on the door. 

"Arthur!" John's coarse voice bounced around the abandoned Ranch, the ferocity of burning wood muffling his cried.

"Arthur!" John hit the deck, rolled in the dirt; the pain surreal. His shaking hands removed his bandana from his face, struggling to tie it tight above the gunshot wound in his thigh, stemming the blood. He rose on shaky legs hobbling and stumbling, he collapsed forward, his weight clattering into the barn, its frame yet to be consumed by the fire, was still sturdy.

"Arthur! I'm coming" there was no response. John's vision blurred; he was quickly running out of energy. His breath laboured, the pinching sting in his lungs enough to shock him unconscious.

"'M, coming Arthur, hold on," John groused, crawling to his feet, hobbling slowly, leaning against the barn as he made his way to the basement. He moved faster as he got closer, a sense of urgency rushing up his spine, the fire was starting to take hold. Black plumes were filling the air, sending acrid toxins into his lung. John shot the lock twice and pulled the chains. He pulled the hatch doors open to be greeted with a film of dirty smoke, a trail of thick blood led down the gloomy basement. His heart rate paced so fast he was sure it would impale itself on his ribs. Don't be Arthur's blood, John prayed. He stubbled down each step, gasping in pain as he lowered his leg slowly. He could see Hosea's corpse scrunched on the floor of the entrance. John almost collapsed when he set eyes on Arthur, the narrow stairwell preventing his damsel moment, instead, he leant against the wall, sweaty, broken, barely conscious, he looked worse than Arthur.

"You took your time," Arthur grumbled, his voice dry and rough.

"Thought I would do some remodelling," John said mockingly, pretending that they had all the time in the world and his heart hadn't been craving sight of the man. "Hope the new owners like what I have done to the place."

Arthur chocked a laugh and grimaced in pain. "Please tell me you brought the others and it ain't just you?"

John didn't bother to answer, Arthur already knew, John hobbled over to the wall trying not to disturb Hosea's body. He didn't feel pain now, which was a bad sign, but he wouldn't let Arthur know the extent of the damage. "Did you get the key?" Arthur gasped, coughing from the smoke.

"Didn't know I needed it," John groaned, checking the chains, they were solid wrought iron links but rusted. "You know what to do" John nodded at Arthur. The man pulled forward, tighten the rings, he would have used his strength to increase the firm pressure on them, but he had nothing left. The bullet quit the gun, it pinged on the metal, bounced off the ceiling, a whizzing sound past John's head, and he hit the deck.

"Did you shoot yourself?" Arthur croaked,

"No" John confirmed, rolling over, standing over Arthur. "If I pull hard enough, I could dislodge them from the wall." Arthur scanned John, the most pitiful defeated stare, if he didn't have the energy to break the bonds, then John certainly didn't. 

"We can do it together," John said, reaching up and pulling all his weight against the chains. Arthur screamed the most gut-wrenching scream as the bonds tugged his sensitive, burning wrists.

"Stop John," Arthur pleaded, his eyes welling with tears. "Just go..." Arthur huffed barely audible. It was a pointless gesture, Arthur could sense John had no intention of leaving him, especially as this would be their final moments together. John dropped to the floor, resting himself against Arthurs body.

"I was banking on you dragging me out of here." John gulped his throat dry, in all his nightmares, the dark thoughts that consumed him, he never imagined this could be their end that they would behave not in loving overtures or commitments but as brothers, joking and spiking each other. A creak and crash jolted them slightly, the barn was collapsing, dust plumbed down the opening of the cellar removing what little clean air they had left. Arthur could barely keep his eyes open, he shuffled closer, pulling his chained arms around John, nestling his head into the crook of his neck holding him close. He could feel himself slipping, but it felt right with John in his arms.

“Arthur, I am scared,” John chocked a cry, it was innocent, soft and pure.

“Nothing to be scared of, we got each other.” Arthur pulled him so tight he was sure John would stop breathing first, bear hugged to death by the man he loved. “I love you, boy.”


	50. Wake Up

Arthur surrendered to the light; daybreak's illuminating rays shone brighter than any sunrise he recalled witnessing. During morning's call of serenity and calmness, Arthur was discharged of the weight that stifled him for so many years. The destruction he left in his wake, the lives he failed to save, they were ready to forgive, to gift his redemption. The only stipulation, Arthur had to fight for it, prove himself worthy, reach out and claim what was his all along. Yet, he was a songbird without a song, clemency after the crank of the hangman's handle, captain of a sinking ship. His redemption could not be delivered by others; it was gained from within, the forgiveness of himself. Arthur could see nothing except the radiant morning burning the barley blushed sky, a torn mirage of blues and oranges, reds and yellows, the twinkle of the twilight stars still visible. _It's dawn Arthur most people are getting up, well I guess I ain't most people, I am an outlaw_.

John couldn't sense the agonising suffering he succumbed to in that basement. The idea of letting go, even in his darkest moment, was too cowardly an act. Having battled so hard to save Arthur, he accepted that it just wasn't to be. He was demanding too much of a world that was willing to give so little to his creed. It was enough, Rose was safe, her young life barely begun. She would blossom into the most wonderful woman; he would beam with pride to call her daughter. He wasn't going to observe her adulthood, at least, in the end, he passed on with the only boy he ever desired, their tapestry in the stars complete.

"John," Arthur's voice rasped scarred from smoke, rugged and rough, he didn't recognise the noise he made when he called for his lover. John's clammy hand resting in his own.

"Yeah, Arthur," John croaked. Unable to move, stiff and aching. The multiple injuries he sustained, rendering him incapacitated. 

"Are we dead?" Arthur let out a baritone grumble brimming with confusion, unable to discern their present location. The light so bright was no hellfire or brimstone, no ferryman waiting to take them to the underworld. Arthur would not countenance his misdeeds earning him an audience with St Peter let alone passage through those pearly gates.

"No, Arthur" John's voice was placid, low, he'd lost all gravel and grit leaving a deflated tone. Arthur, having navigated his own personal trial in that basement, confirmed his unwillingness to presume any of this was real. It could be a fresh vision, one that frightened him most, if the curtain fell to reveal Beelzebub in all his majesty, he was convinced his heart would explode into a million pieces. Only now on the precipice of the abyss could Arthur see clearly what was worth fighting for. Life was for the living, the ghosts that haunted his every step required their own peace, no longer kept in purgatory by his unquiet mind, it was time to let go and start living.

"John" Arthur groaned out his name with all the love and adoration he could muster from his rip-tired throat and weakened lungs.

"Yeah, Arthur" John shifted his weight slightly, trying to draw closer, the suffocating tightness that ran the length and breadth of his body prevented him from doing so.

"Where are we?" Arthur choked, grimacing, ejecting a solitary tear down his cheek. Arthur was asking a question so terrifying, but he needed to know the answer. Heaven, hell, purgatory, a space between worlds that no man had recorded, even the basement, everything a delusion as they succumbed to their final breathless fate.

"My bedroom Arthur," John said plainly his words breathless, incapable of expressing emotion. Arthur seized a second to compose himself. Clearly, he had been on a wild journey, confronting his own personal demons. A man cannot bounce so suddenly back into the present without admitting the change such a cathartic experience can accomplish. To believe he lay in his lovers' bed, in his bedroom, safe, after the torturous encounters he witnessed, he couldn't tolerate such reflections fading into the mundanity of life. It required confession and recompense, the spirits of his lost loves made him comprehend for the first time the power of those who loved him and the joy he afforded to so many. Arthur cleared his throat, trying to speak through his dry scarred oesophagus, his chapped raw lips, these were important for John to hear.

"I thought it was heaven" A small cough shook the bed slightly; John gripped his hand tighter, weaving his fingers into Arthurs.

"It is heaven, Arthur, because you're here," Exhausted by the tightness in his chest he was unable to offer any extra comfort to Arthur. The man was dealing with his own scars, some not visible, at least they would heal together. John slipped back into a fragmented sleep, hallucinations flitted before him, some dreamlike, others nightmares. He heard Rose, Joseph and Theodore, their timbre and tones quiet whispers barely audible. Arthur flanked him throughout, his snoring breaths affirming his presence, side-by-side where they belonged.

"John," Arthur murmured from his sleep-filled haze.

"Yes, Arthur" John responded softly shaking the cobwebs from his own unconsciousness. It was darker now; the sun having bowed in the afternoon sky. The heat of the room dispelling into a gentle coolness.

"M' sorry" Arthur sniffed. The reverberations of Arthur's broad chest shook the mattress, confirming to John his man was crying. John gasped, as he rolled onto his bandaged ribs, no amount of injury was comparable to the emotional distress Arthur was displaying. Arthur was not a crier, the few occasions John had witnessed tears from the man, they had revealed some of darkest, tragic moments of Arthur's life. If this was John's idea of heaven, why was Arthur exhibiting signs of misery?

"What for?" John responded after he dampened his groans of discomfort. He ran his thumb over Arthur's chin, his claiming scar, prompting his man to look at him. Arthur's eyes were pools of wet swirling puddles, so deep with despair, it almost broke John to gaze upon them. What could Arthur have possibly done to invoke such agitation in himself?

"M'sorry for not loving you with all the reverence you deserved," Arthur spoke through his rough and ready drawl, gasped those words like a declaration of wrongdoing, his intent implied broke him into full, unabashed tears.

"Don't say that Arthur" John pulled himself closer, so close they shared the same air. His hand caressed along Arthur's cheek soothing the man, studying his adorably sunken expression, his brow furrowed, his eyes big and bold, he appeared to morph into a child that required unconditional love. Such a declaration should have made John's heart sing with possibility, the joy of Arthur returning to him. Instead, a sting of guilt settled in him, the choices he made to save them were without the man's knowledge or consent, the doubt sat stirring in his stomach. Yet, this was not the time to display insecurity or Arthur's time to unravel. To heal, they had to remain jovial and light.

"It's true" Arthur quivered under John's gaze.

"Those words, from your lips, with that smoke-scarred drawl, is making me hard, and neither of us is in a position to do a damn thing about it." John quipped winking at his outlaw. Arthur groaned, his chest wheezing from the laugh he was trying to suppress sent him coughing so harsh he had to sit up. That was progress, neither of them maintained the concept of time and how long they had been bed-bound.

"Their awake" a squeal emanated from the corridor, bouncing off every wall, filling the house with groans, creaks and shuffles.

"Here she comes," John said as a warning, propping himself up next to Arthur. Rose flew into the room, her goldarn curls whipping with abandon in the air. She scrambled up the bed like a spider, erratic in her courtesy, her limbs flailing excitedly, gaining a position with no consideration for the condition of her fathers. They howled and yelped, shuffling to give her space and save themselves, as she snuggled and snaked between their aching bodies.

"How are you feeling?" She asked joyfully, placing an arm around both their necks. Pulling them close to her like two spring lambs in need of comfort. 

"All the better for seeing you, princess." John rolled his eyes to Arthur's set to charm twang. He knew that sultry tone well; spent too many nights jealous of the receiver. Arthur was wooing his little lady back. John smirked, Arthur was in for a shock, Rose didn't fall for compliments. She was iron-strong with her judgments, and Arthur had just been ensnared.

"Don't try and worm your way out of the scolding I am going to give you" John chuckled, Arthur was in receipt of that unforgiving frown, that scornful glare. John bit his lip enjoying witnessing someone else on the sharp-end of Rose's caustic comments. He wasn't stupid though; Arthur might be first in line for his telling off, John could sense he would be next.

"What did I do?" Arthur flashed his eyes with mischief, he was damn-well aware of his roguish behaviour but wasn't going to make it easier on her.

"You. Left. Us," Rose squawked, poking her finger into Arthur's chest.

"I came back…eventually," Arthur responded with a shrug. Those words had John crying tears of joy, disguised as laughter, he always came back eventually.

"I don't think returning unconscious, half-dead counts as a wilfully coming back of your own volition" Rose tilted her head, her gold spun hair falling across Arthur's chest, she was deadly serious. John discreetly shook his head, that would have been the winning blow for her if this was his fight. He understood the gist of what she was saying but what a command of language she had developed, far outstripping anything he could come back with. Not Arthur, he was always witty, good with comebacks and so goddamn hilarious with it.

"Ah, you clearly have yet to master making an entrance to remember." Arthur placed a kiss on her forehead, claiming his victory over his pouting princess.

"And you..." Rose turned her glower on John, sensing a victory in his weakness. Unfortunately for her, John had enough time to think of a death blow. While Rose was individually brilliant and eloquent in her attacks, her tactics required improvement.

"Try it" John scowled back, capturing her gaze "And I will tell Arthur what you did."

A creeping pink hue crossed her cheeks, she was aware of the elephant in the room, she shot a man, and that was not deemed acceptable by her one father. Rose couldn't bear the thought of Arthur thinking less of her, of being wounded by her actions.

"Love you," She smiled, kissing John on the forehead, mimicking Arthur.

"Tell me what?" Arthur groused, studying the pair.

"Nothing" They both responded, their eyes displaying equal measures of innocence and mischief.

"That can stop," Arthur pointed his finger at both of them, "Nothing but honesty from now on if we are family then no lies." He laboured the final point, making it clear his intentions and expectations, father had spoken.

"Fine," Rose rolled her eyes, "Then you both need a bath, you are stinking the whole house out, that honest enough for you." She even had the gall to wink at Arthur. John cried with laughter, almost tumbling from the bed, Arthurs expression at her sass was a picture of disbelief. John knew he would get the blame for that, not raising her properly, not teaching her to respect her elders. Rose was a hurricane that started spinning well before John had any influence over her.

"Come on madam stop bothering my patients, they need rest." The authoritative tone of Joseph called from the corridor. Rose hastened her escape from the bed, jumping over John's corpsing body and out of the room.

"Do you want to bathe first or shall I?" John wanted to suggest together, but their tub barely fit him, let alone Arthur.

"You can go first, your stink is more offensive than mine," John rolled his eyes, unwilling to get into this argument again. He never believed his odour was that offensive but every chance someone had to raise it as an ongoing issue they would. 

Freshly washed and dressed they tenderly wobbled downstairs, their movements slow and geriatric. It was still a race between the pair no amount of injury or heartfelt words would remove that competitive streak they shared since childhood. John won by a whisker before he could gloat, a sting shot across his face, Mary-Beth didn't restrain the force in her slap, Arthur and Charles both barked with laughter, amused by her response.

"It's good to see you too, Darlin," Arthur said in his whisky soaked drawl. John grimaced at how the big man managed to have everyone wrapped so tightly around his little finger that he was never admonished for his behaviour.

"How are you both feeling?" Theodore inquired, he was cooking up a storm in John's kitchen, appeared to have made himself right at home. The smell of garlic and fresh tomato made John's stomach rumble. The glare in Theodore's eyes confirmed they were in just as much trouble with him as they were with Rose and Mary-Beth.

"Rough" Arthur and John responded in unison before they fought over the same chair to sit on. Arthur won or so he thought, the weight of John collapsing in his lap, made his ribs sting.

"Alright princess, you can have the chair." John flashed him a scowl as Arthur perched on the counter, eyeing the pot of goodness before him.

"Well for two dead men at least you have your voices." Joseph chuckled at his own joke leaving Arthur frowning at the meaning, John just nodded his agreement. "The deeds have been changed into Rose's name, myself and Theodore are her guardians until she comes of age."

"What did you do?" Arthur grabbed John's hand, forcing him out of the chair to face him, scowling disapprovingly at John. When John told Arthur he owned the farm, the beam of pride in his eyes was something real. How could he give it away so hastily, even if it was to Rose?

"The only thing that made sense," John said, punishing Arthur with a hurtful glare. "They were never going to stop coming for us if we were still alive." Arthur's grip tightened around John's wrist. Joseph could see the pain written across Arthur's face and the hurt growing in John's eyes. Their peace with each other was clearly tentative, Joseph sought to clarify.

"John died on Tuesday at Emerald Ranch; his body was interred at the cemetery in Rhodes. Arthur, you died in a fire at Hanging Dog Ranch and what remained of your scorched remains were taken along with Mr Matthews to be buried in a lovely spot high up on the mountains facing west, that was right wasn't it, John? I thought about bringing you both here, it felt morbid seeing your own graves every day," John didn't respond, studying Arthur for a sign of forgiveness, the stoic bastard didn't blink.

"Anyway," Joseph hesitantly interjected, fumbling to break their silent fury. "The deeds have been changed at the bank on presentation of John's death certificate, even got it in the Blackwater Ledger if you care to see?" Joseph positioned the documents on the table, hoping their presence would break the stand-off. "Everyone thinks you're dead." All eyes in the kitchen were set on them, disbelieving of the capacity the pair had to argue. They came close to losing each other on numerous occasions, in that loss, they displayed nothing but dedication and single-mindedness towards each other, no one could come close to reason. Yet, with the chaos abated, in the calming solitude of a quiet life, anger was all they could exhibit.

"Except the gang," Charles sort to clarify, the gang had seen John alive when he confronted them. While he trusted the deceitful vagabonds that made up the remains of the Van Der Linde Gang, it didn't sit right that they had knowledge of John after his supposed death. Charles knew Arthur would feel the same way, he didn't much like lying to the man who had been a principled friend.

"Dutch" Arthur grumbled, making John stiffen. Arthur had no right to use that man's name in their home. John pulled his wrist from Arthur's clutches, his wolfish glare striking Arthur in his heart.

"What about him?" John said coldly. Arthur pulled on his stoic resolve, refusing to allow John to see a moment of his anguish. John would misread it and assume it was for Dutch, and not for John. Arthur understood the torment in John's expression. Knowing someone so heinous and vile still shared the same air and there was not a damned thing to be done about it; was enough to tear the fabric of a man apart. He felt it when Eliza and Isaac were murdered, he would never have the gift of vengeance, revenge was a fool's game. 

"So your big plan was to lie to everyone, get yourself riddled with bullets, divest yourself of your property and live as a dead man for the rest of your life," Charles groused. Having heard and witnessed snippets from Joseph and Theodore, he required John to explain the lunacy that drove them here. It spun Arthur sideways feeling John's loss, it was a high stakes poker game, and John sacrificed everything to win. Only it didn't feel like winning in Arthur's mind, it was losing a lot.

"No, my plan was to make Arthur heel," John returned to his seat, this was a long story to tell. "Arthur would have taken on the Pinkertons single-handedly if he knew they had Rose, so I took that option away from him. Arthur would have read it all over my face if I didn't intervene, so I seduced him," The room murmured at the thought. A pink tinge of blush crossed Arthur's face; he was not exactly the type of man to be seduced, the damn moron managed it. Rose mock vomited at the thought of either of them being involved in seduction with each other.

"Grow-up," John barked before returning to his plan. "I have always been Arthur's blind spot, with me whirling around in his head he couldn't see what was really going on, it gave me time to plan. I knew Dutch and Micah would find out about the Pinkertons before we descended on Emerald Ranch, I knew Dutch wouldn't miss the opportunity to get rid of me once and for all." John tapped his fingers on the table, letting that sink in, none of them witnessed how sour the relationship between Dutch and John was behind all the lies.

"I filled my hipflask with animal blood, the shot appeared fatal, faked my own death, with the help of deadly nightshade, supplied by Theodore." John tipped a nod to the man who was still lost in his cooking. "I died in the dirt in front of the Pinkertons, confirmed by a physician no less," John pointed to Joseph who nodded in confirmation. "I left Emerald ranch in a coffin with Rose safe, and no one blinked an eyelid." John pained a smirk, he was proud of his escapade and how it had worked, not that the grim faces staring back at him seemed to appreciate it.

"I didn't plan for Dutch to take Arthur to Colm, but Colm has been hiding out in my neck of the woods for a long time, I knew where to find him." John studied Arthur, who patiently listened to every word spoken. "It worked out in the end, your death was believable, died in a fire. Tactically brilliant if I do say so myself. And if the only sacrifice I have to make is that I no longer own my land, well that is alright, it was always going to end up in Rose's hands eventually."

"Tactically weak, execution poor, I would call it a John Marston special." Arthur's steely gaze pinned John down; his jaw tightened. "How did you know Dutch would shoot you on the left? He could have gone for the stomach, the right, your leg?"

"That is where I always get shot, on the left above the heart, makes sense right-handed shooter shoots on the left." John defended his actions, he considered Dutch might shoot him in the head but he wouldn't have known about it. By that time, Rose was with Joseph, the Pinkertons would have released her to his care when they realised John wasn't returning.

"The laws of probability would suggest that if you always get shot in the same location, the chances of getting shot there again are slim to none," Theodore interjected, using science to piss on John's bonfire.

"Yes, thank you, Theodore," John said sarcastically at the older man.

"And Dutch always favours his left hand and not his right when shooting", Charles added to really ram home the point.

"It doesn't matter does it, we are alive, and it worked." John threw his hands in the air, his exuberance over his tactics quickly sinking.

"Except we are not all alive," Mary-Beth said solemnly.

"Luck more than judgement, John," Arthur growled, steering the conversation back, he didn't know who had died, didn't want to think about it. Of the gang, only Charles and Mary-Beth were here, they could have all perished. That wasn't John's fault, Arthur didn't want their grief aimed at John. It wasn't John's job to protect them, Dutch betrayed them, and their deaths sat firmly at his door. "I knew there was something rotten in Denmark the whole time."

"Bull, I played it perfectly, your head was spinning so fast I even got you to confess your darkest secret." John spilt his comeback so quickly he forgot the company they were in, the secret that wasn't designed for sharing. Arthur didn't bulk, his impassive expressions would not reveal the tumult of his past bubbling up. John might be aiming low, he was clearly hurting.

"It's hardly the achievement of the century, I got it out of him quicker than you did," Mary-Beth scowled, overcome with a desire to protect Arthur.

"Mary-Beth" Arthur chastised, shooting her a glare of disdain, this was not the time or the place. John wasn't posturing, he wasn't seeking praise just Arthur's approval, he'd always been the same. Arthur should have been the bigger man, let it slide, but he needed John to know that he was there every step of the way with him. John was an open book, and Arthur read every word, making his attempts at hiding woefully inadequate. John would never lie to him, ask him a direct question, and he would speak the truth. Arthur avoided that at all costs, Arthur was always scared of John's truth, that one day it wouldn't include Arthur.

"Quiet anytime I mentioned Rose," Arthur began to list the tell-tale signs of John hiding. "Crying in the bathtub in St Denis,"

"I wasn't crying, just had something in my eyes" John interjected, reddening at being caught.

"Got grouchy when I suggested I would take the Emerald Ranch job to Dutch" Arthur remained stoic remembering the pain of that day, John's hurtful words, I don't need your protection. "Don't think that little dance you and Theodore were jigging fooled me either, you must've thought I had idiot written on my forehead to believe that." Theodore gulped recalling his visit from John and Arthur. "You're always welcome Arthur even without John." Arthur crudely mimicked the man. "And I knew that blood wasn't yours, it was cold to touch, and you breathe too goddamn loudly for a dead person."

"You were crying when you held me," John tried to reason, Arthur's reaction appeared genuine.

"By the time I worked it out, I couldn't give you away. If I stopped crying, Dutch would have shot you in the head to make damn sure you were dead," Arthur explained his reaction, the truth was he bawled like a baby when Dutch shot John. It wasn't the type of emotional response he could just stop when he felt John's heart still beating in his ribs, heard his breath, felt cold blood.

"Bull," John shot back, unable to believe that Arthur was on to him the whole time. He wasn't twelve again, couldn't be tricked into compliance, everything he did was on his own because of him. His job was to save his family, and he did it alone. "If you were so sure there was something rotten in demark, why didn't you say anything?"

"I never probe you, never have and never will, too terrified by what's going on in that head of yours", Arthur confessed receiving an Amen from Joseph and Theodore who appeared to take note of his tactics.

"I save you once you have gotten yourself into enough of a mess you can't get yourself out of," Arthur said proudly watching the frown of understanding cross John's face. It wasn't pride Arthur felt when he pointed out his protection of John, what he did to save them. It was an understanding that protecting him was all Arthur could or would ever do, there was no negotiation. The silence was broken by a cough from the man of few words, Charles. "Fine, usually I save you, this time Charles had to save us both from the fire, that you started, with your tactical genius."

"How did you know where we were?" John hastened to add.

"You were so easy to track, I could have done it with my eyes closed, just followed the stench." Charles mocked, aware of John's history with baths. Arthur guffawed at the statement, flashing his toothy grin at the attractive man.

John's wolfish glare would have been fearsome if he wasn't pouting like Rose during one of her tantrums. His legs had well and truly been swiped from under him, not a moment given to bask in the glory he thought he rightfully earned. "If your all so brilliant what would you have done in my situation?" John squawked, tapping his foot relentlessly against the stone floor. Arthur cringed, gulped preparing for John to blow,_ come back doe._

"Told Arthur" A cacophony of voices filled the kitchen, making John scowl more. The smug grin on Arthur as all those who knew them spoke the right answer, without a moment's hesitation or doubt confirmed to Arthur he was still the man for the job, protecting John was his lifelong vocation.

"Neither of you would be alive if I hadn't shot that nasty man in the head," Rose said proudly, this little back and forth between them had gone on for long enough, credit where credit is due, they were both equally dense.

"What the…." Arthur squalled fury consuming his eyes, all aimed at John. "Where did you get a gun darlin'" Arthur pointed his finger at Rose while keeping his glare firmly set on John.

"It was for protection; she was given explicit instructions which she ignored." John tried to justify himself, shooting Rose a flash of authority that had her confidence wilting. He was a smouldering hot mess of anger. He didn't need Arthur's judgements, his scorn, his parental tongue-lashing they were supposed to be equals, Arthur and Rose needed his protection not the other way around.

"You gave our daughter a gun," Arthur continued, incensed by the revelation. "What if it didn't fire? what if she got shot?"

John scraped his chair across the floor as he stood, the sound was irritating and purposeful, his posture stiff and unyielding. He fixed Arthur in a trance so forceful the outlaw couldn't look away. Everyone was braced for the ensuing fight that always came when they weren't able to reason verbally. Arthur held that scowl, there was no forgiveness, not yet, Rose could have been killed.

"What if you didn't take me away from the gang, would Eliza and Isaac still be alive?" Arthur's stoic resolved crumbled into pieces, the sorrowful expression he wore was enough to break the coldest of hearts. John didn't waver; his heart was shattering. 

"My home is you home; your place will always be here but you ain't sleeping in my bed," John said solemnly shoulder barging Arthur as he retreated for the stairs. He wanted to ascend them in vigorous rage, but his wounds wouldn't let him. Arthur might still see a reckless and thoughtless boy, but John was a man, capable of making his own decisions and living by his mistakes. If Arthur couldn't see that, then they had no right sleeping together.

"Technically it is my home" Rose quipped trying to lighten the mood.

"Shut up," Both her fathers responded in their quintessential accents.

Arthur watched as John slowly skulked upstairs, he didn't mean to push him so hard, to get carried away. He damaged John, made him feel inferior, pushed him into submission as Dutch used to do with him. John was so much more a man than Arthur had ever been, when Arthur bowed to Dutch's malevolence, John fought back. Now he was fighting Arthur, not allowing his judgemental ways to emasculate him. Arthur was on the goddamn couch for being an asshole, and he'd only been awake a few hours.

"You better fix that," Rose said, tipping her spoon into the creamy tomato sauce Theodore had created throughout the argument. "There is a spare room next to my bedroom while you do."


	51. Fitting In

Arthur's stomping gate clattered strongly against the wooden slats of the porch. The longer he ruminated over their argument, the greater his assuredness swelled that he was right. Only he wasn't, John did everything in his power with the resources available to him to keep them safe, alive and free. There were a few irksome moments where Arthur may have chosen an alternative route, but he wasn't there, so he couldn't possibly provide a fair assessment. His perspective swung back to rage; Arthur kicked a shrub for good measure. John didn't utilise all the resources available, he didn't include his best resource, Arthur. Ignored Arthur's skills, experience, his ability to plan and strategise, execute brilliantly, he was dismissed by his own brother as not worthy of saving them, the only thing he was good at. It was more goddamn luck than judgement, the life of safety and freedom was not afforded to all of them. John made his choices, he chose Rose, rightly and Arthur, possibly. Not Hosea his father, Susan his mother, the gang of brothers that were always there, Lenny, Javier, Sean.

_Why didn't you tell me you goddamn fool? _Arthur replayed their interactions, created multiple theories to fathom an explanation; John wanted to prove himself, he had no loyalty to the gang, John was scared of what Arthur would say, was afraid of what Arthur would do. They were all plausible, spoke of John. His black and white persona, binary decisions that led them all down this path without consent. Yet Arthur couldn't shake his unease, his boy, no matter how argumentative, irritated or starry-eyed they were for each other always asked for his help when he needed it. He could feel his boots wearing under the strain of his ministrations, it was a toss-up between the leather falling apart of the porch collapsing. Arthur reluctantly settled on the swinging chair aptly placed to capture the farm and the enticing vistas beyond it. Arthur could envisage many a peaceful summer night sat drinking with John, Rose close-by reading, that was his idea of heaven. He wanted to imagine his future, remove his foot from his mouth, the other from the past and move forward, with John. 

Arthur's eyes filled with tears that would not fall, his consideration of John's actions led him to the one place he dared not to go. John didn't include Arthur because deep down, he knew Arthur was weak, vulnerable and not man enough to protect his family. Arthur's attempts at being honest, speaking the truth to John, albeit in stages, was absorbed and reasoned in John's mind as Arthur not being good enough. It confirmed what Arthur always dreaded, John could finally see him for what he was, a feeble abused boy who couldn't be trusted.

Arthur chased those thoughts from his mind, self-criticism, doubt wasn't going to win back John's affections. Arthur stirred from the seat, wandered for a while around the paddocks that housed John's livestock. John made this place thrive with his own bare hands, built it up into a respectable business. Arthur wouldn't know where to begin, where he fit in all of this. How could he carve out an existence with John when John's reality was already damn near perfect?

A familiar whinny cut through the crisp evening sky, he'd been so lost in himself he missed dinner and suspected everyone had retired, not waiting for him to exorcise his demons. Arthur approached the stables, glad to find some company. At least the beautiful beast in front of him would never disown him, couldn't identify his weaknesses and manipulate him. The silky mottled brown and white horse was smitten with him even if she was impatient, kicking the stable door to make him move faster.

"Hello, Jezebel," Arthur keened. Placing his forehead against hers, patting her gently as they reconnected. "Where's your owner, aye, he went and left you alone again, somethings don't change, do they girl," Jezebel whined in response. 

"I know, I know, no fool like an old fool" Arthur spoke delicately to Jezebel, soothing her. "Pride is a hard thing to swallow, he doesn't need me, girl, starting to think he never did, I got nothing to offer to offer him." Jezebel's sad hazel eyes lingered, her long lashes fluttering, she always had a way of making him feel better. John's nurturing temperament and his hot-headedness, the doe and wolf, made them a good match. That's why Arthur had suggested her over the other stabled horses, Jezebel had substance. The wry smile that crossed his face brought her closer, Jezebel placed her head over his shoulder, a strange hug if there ever was one, but Arthur took what affection he could get. 

"Boadicea," Arthur narrowed his eyes, peering into the darkness. His girl was still, her breathing laboured as she panted and snorted, sounding distressed. Arthur opened the latch to the stable door, moving cautiously around Jezebel who appeared unsteady to his approach, determined to protect her fallen friend. Boadicea lay on a bed of hay; her forelegs were bandaged. She grunted in discomfort, hot and heavy, Arthur could smell the rot, the infection. _What happened girl?_ The sound of his calming drawl prompted her head to rise, her eyes were fearful, displayed the terror she endured, she rolled onto her front, preparing to get up. 

"Stay down, girl, stay down, you're alright," Arthur spoke reassuringly as he lowered himself to her, biting his own injuries as they threatened screams. Arthur smoothed the length of her mane, her neck, she settled. Jezebel stood over the pair of them, guarding Boadicea, Arthur could sense her trepidation to his presence. "You've been taking care of her haven't you girl, a true friend." Jezebel shook her head, nodding her agreement to his sentiment.

"You ladies shame your owners," Arthur mused, John, and he couldn't manage such close quarters and still display kindness. The pair nickered, before settling. Arthur and John arguing was nothing new to them, they always got a visit, a brush, some benefit when one or the other had to let off steam. The only beneficiaries to their storming rows. Arthur placed a kiss on Boadicea's forehead. "I can't lose you too, girl, stay for me."

"I said I didn't want you in my bed, that didn't mean sleep in the stable." John's gritty voice woke Arthur. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, regretted when his body screamed, the awkward position made his muscles rigid and stiff.

"Breakfast is ready when you want it." John bowed. His cattleman low concealing his eyes, Arthur could sense the wolf still reigning supreme in those smouldering embers. 

"Ain't you coming?" Arthur grunted his harsh morning tone, motioning John towards the farmhouse.

"Some of us have work to do." Arthur winced at those words, he was more than happy to contribute, wanted to do more than that, to partner John, the damn fool was going to make it hard for him.

After breakfast, Arthur found himself back on the swinging chair. He watched John boss his farm, he was hands-on but also gave orders like an owner should. The men of the farm seemed to respect him, appeared pleased to have him back. It was only when they weren't near, did John take a few sharp breaths, release a tense grimace, he hadn't healed enough to be working, stubborn ass. Joseph and Theodore joined Arthur for a while, nattering away about irrelevances. They were eyeing up John's old property, deciding whether the dwelling would be more suited to their needs, if they were going to stay long-term. Arthur was in agreement, the men who saved their lives would always be welcome, whatever brought them the most comfort. He encouraged them to go and scope out the property, decide if it met their requirement. Arthur was more than happy to renovate the property to suit their tastes, perhaps that was the project he was searching for. One that would begin to nurture his place in John's world, because John appeared hell-bent on not necessitating that need.

"Arthur," Charles thick baritone broke his thoughts or his internal argument that was still raging war. Charles's chestnut eyes and muted tones always brought comfort to Arthur; his mere presence was enough to reassure the most nervous spirit. He'd long been Arthur's tonic to the pressures of life.

"Charles," Arthur shuffled in his chair, his eyes returning to John. There was no point in concealing his focus, Charles was far too perceptive to buy anything Arthur was trying to sell.

"Mary-Beth and I are going to get out of your hair, now you're recovering, you don't need us hanging around." Charles was a man of few words, Arthur appreciated that most about him, always direct and to the point. While he'd spent very little time with Charles since arriving at the farm, he would miss his silent presence, miss, the opportunity to be called a damn fool for his behaviour. Charles distributed his sage words at the right time, Arthur was relying on that to fix this.

"You are always welcome here Charles, both of you, stay as long as you want, hell, stay forever." Arthur huffed a sigh as his pleading words mirrored in his sullen expression.

"My bones don't know how to settle Arthur, been moving around for too long." Arthur felt correspondence with that view-point, knowing but not willing to admit he was the same. "Wondering soul, that's what he is scared off, getting used to you being around and then you're not."

Arthur guffawed, then coughed trying to conceal his amusement, in all the sadness he could rely on his good friend to have the finger on the pulse. John's behaviour wasn't a sulk about being reprimanded for his actions, this enforced distance was his fear. Arthur wasn't doing a great job of alleviating that fear, his mannerisms, his battles were probably harming John more than he realised. A reserved Arthur generally led to a distant Arthur which was quickly followed by an absent Arthur, but he wouldn't allow his friend to have the last word on the matter,

"No, it ain't, he just realising I am not the man he thought I was," Arthur drawled his usual self-deprecation when faced with accuracy. Both insights seemingly were the honest truth, Arthur behaved in a way that scared John, while he failed to create the gestures of the man John dreamed of. Arthur could see very little that could do to remedy either of those conundrums. How could he remove the essence of who he was, his life experience, his loss, to be who John wanted?

"Arthur Morgan, will you ever learn?" Mary-Beth's shrill voice ended the solemn silence both men were enjoying. "You didn't see the look of horror in his face when he realised your bed hadn't been slept in, he tore about this house like a deranged lunatic waking everyone up, crying that you left him."

Arthur smirked, not at Mary-Beth, though she chose to take offence to his expression as she pinched a narrow glare at him. His smile was for John, the aloof bastard had his cattleman low to conceal his bloodshot eyes. Arthur leaving made him cry, there was hope. "Don't you dare throw away this chance, there can't be many left for you two."

John embodied all the nature of a stubborn mule on market day, refusing to budge from his work even for refreshment when the sun was too hot in the sky. Arthur suspected his day-long presence of the porch had some of the reason for that. The only time John crossed the threshold of his home was to sit down for dinner, resulting in a palaver when he found Arthur sat at the head of the table. The ensuing fuss didn't do much for Arthur's building bridges strategy, he was unceremoniously growled out of his seat by wolf boy. That set the tone for their meal, silence, broken only by bad-tempered grunts and the irritating scrapes of cutlery.

"Thank you, Theodore, the food was good," John said before placing his cattleman on his head. Arthur was thankful the ass hadn't forgotten his manners.

"Where are you going?" Arthur called after him, it was getting dark. Arthur knew very little of farming livestock, but he imagined there was low demand from the animals in the night.

"Work still needs doing." Arthur shook his head in disbelief, this was almost as painful as when John first joined the gang and was trying to conceal the tricks he was pulling on the side. Not that anyone can remember that version of John. Arthur was in a class of one in that respect, which is why the ornery stares he was getting from those who remained at the dinner table were not well received. This was John Marston basic training, primal behaviours that couldn't be kicked or shouted out of him. Patience and time were what John needed, he seemed to be the only one who understood that.

"I'm going to bed," Arthur said irritable, accepting that he wasn't living up to the expectations of the room, his magic baton was broken. His other rod was disgruntled too, due to its current neglect, Arthur couldn't stare at his boy all day and not feel sparks, it was his John's responsibility to sort it; if he still wanted the job.

Arthur climbed the stairs deflated, no wonder Mary-Beth and Charles were planning their escape. Theodore and Joseph were high-tailing it to the sanctuary of the smaller house, who would want to live in this. Arthur opened the door of his cupboard sized bedroom; a small camp bed and bedside table were all that could fit. Not that Arthur was grumbling, it was more comfort than he was used to. On the bed was a rolled-up pelt, at least someone had the care to leave him a blanket to keep warm. Arthur grabbed the thick pelt, instantly recognising the texture, he removed the twine wrapped around it, his possessions clattering on the floor.

"He made sure we didn't leave without them," Rose said peaking through the doorway. Arthur was blown away, in all that chaos and loss John didn't forget about Arthur's possessions, knew he wouldn't function without them. John was excelling himself and making Arthur feel like the rotten bastard. Arthur rolled the pelt out on the floor, moving his possessions to one side and ushered Rose in was a warm smile. 

"I brought chocolate; thought you could do with some cheering up." Arthur nodded his gratitude, receiving the bar and unwrapping it and snapping a square of each. He was glad of the company, pleased to have alone time with Rose. In all the chaos, he wasn't sure if anyone had given Rose the time to discuss events from her perspective. Arthur was sure there was untold damage sat behind those deep blue eyes, the terror of being kidnapped, of not knowing whether John would save her. John mentioned her mutism when he was shot, it hadn't returned but didn't necessarily make the experience any less traumatic. Arthur nestled into his pelts, encouraging Rose to do the same, it was for Rose to decide if she wanted to discuss it or not. He would stay in comfortable territory, she adored stories of John,

"You know me and John used to sit on my pelts in my tent, spend all night talking nonsense, we usually drank beers but chocolate makes a nice change," Arthur said grinning at Rose. She always had a smile in return for him. He shared another square, the sweet taste calmed him, chocolate was a rare treat that always delivered comfort.

"I can't imagine you two talking, yelling maybe," She giggled at her assessment, trying to imagine what they looked like together as young men. Rose struggled to remember a young John, there were flashes, scowls and grump frowns, also humour and wicked bashful smile, he was less remote with his emotions. Rose hoped Arthur's return would knock those hard edges that developed in his absence out of him. Bring back a softer, more pliable John; instead, she was witnessing what felt like his demise, his inability to reason was making him harder.

"Well we probably would have, but Susan would have gelded both of us for waking her up," Arthur chuckled, swiping Rose's hair back from her face so he could see those delectable rosy cheeks and the chocolate smeared lips. Rose possessed all the beauty of an angel and the etiquette a pig rolling in its own slop. There was something in her faults that made her their perfect daughter, he imagined she kept John on his toes with her caustic words, her endearing wit and had him dying with laughter on her inability not to make a mess, or behave ladylike in any way. Arthur could see it would take a strong, determined, and slightly ludicrous man to tame Rose.

"She seemed like a nice lady; John held her at the end.... she made him promise to get you back". Arthur stiffened, clenched his jaw. The thought of not being there, and her last thoughts were of him made him tremble with sorrow. Arthur was cautious his growing obsession with John was delaying his ability to mourn those he loved and lost, Susan and Hosea. It was possibly a sub-conscious tactic, focus on the man that had always been a safe harbour in stormy seas.

"She was a mother to us both, I am going to miss her very much," Arthur placed an arm around Rose's slim shoulder, pulling her to him.

"When you're ready to talk about what happened, I am here" Arthur drawled lovingly in her ear, enjoying her warmth against his chest. Rose released a hesitant breath confirming she wasn't yet ready, she kissed Arthur's cheek to show her gratitude to his patience. Arthur managed to find the right words, for every situation, with her anyway, with John, he was lousy.

"The best parts of you are in him too," Rose said solemnly, snuggling her body against his to deepen their embrace. Arthur might not be ready to hear it, but they were more alike than either would admit.

"No, John's best parts have nothing to do with me, he got them on his own," Arthur said breathlessly. His own worthlessness permeated so deep even he was becoming restless about it.

"You said you never probe him, too terrified on what's in his head." Rose clarified. "What did you mean really? None of that sarcastic nonsense you say to him."

"I pushed him for an answer once, and I almost lost him, never been so frightened in my life, now I just wait until he is ready to tell me, hope he will tell me" Arthur shifted his weight, his discomfort to the conversation evident from his grip of Rose's slight frame. John chose not to reveal his plans to Arthur and was behaving like a brat avoiding him. Arthur was worried he couldn't live up to John's expectations of him, while he was facing a John from long gone, secretive John. Almost fifteen years and it was day one all over again, only John wasn't twelve, and no longer worshipped the ground Arthur walked on.

"John does that too, learnt it from you, I appreciate him for it." Arthur stared into her blue orbs, trying to obtain and understanding. A flash of sorrow filled her eyes which was mirrored in his own. Arthur appreciated for the first time that it wasn't time with John he missed out on but Rose too. He delayed the reunion of their family because his own pride wouldn't allow him to come back uninvited, now he was dealing with the consequences. They remained caught in each other's arms for a while longer until they both had the comfort they needed.

"What this?" Rose said, pulling away from him. Reaching for his leather-bound journal, which had been one of the many items John had thought to save.

"That's my journal," Arthur confirmed, picking up the book, positioning it away from Rose's grasp.

"Can I read it?" Rose asked excitedly. It sent a shiver down his spine, deja-vu, that's all John ever wanted to do at her age. There was only one response he could think to give

"No and never," Arthur said in his watered-down authoritative tone. "But I can show you some of my drawings," Arthur glanced through page after page until he found the ones he was willing to share "That's you and John, the night we found you in St Denis," Arthur gulped with hesitation, studying her response to see if the picture invoked painful memories, but she beamed, ghosted her fingers across the drawing, showing respect outside her nature as John had done, which made him reciprocate the smile. "Here is John and Jezebel."

"Can you teach me how to draw," Rose asked eagerly.

"Course I can," Arthur replied, "When I tried to teach John the best I got out of him was stickmen." Rose sniggered and rolled her eyes; her artistic endeavours were already above stick men. She could appreciate Arthur's talent, he drawing were so real and lifelike, better than the photographs she had seen. The captured expression, emotion, confessed feeling. 

"Who's this?" Rose held up the unadorned picture frame of Arthur's mother. 

"My mother, and behind her, is the most precious person in my life, my son Isaac." Rose patience reflected deference to his belongings that made him warm inside. Her frown was not of confusion but a whirring of understanding. Rose was unaware of his son, Arthur suspected John hadn't enlightened her on his tragedy, there was already enough sadness in her young life. Rose carefully viewed the picture, Arthur and his boy sat bouncing on his knee. A tear fell, the adoration evident, their expressions bold, it wasn't an Arthur Rose could claim to have met, her tears were for the loss of him, a happier, restful man with love in his eyes.

"He should have a frame of his own as he is so precious." Arthur shook his head to the suggestion. He wasn't ready to for such openness, the pain the picture caused was a burden he carried alone, one that he wasn't willing to share, even with his family. Arthur bit his lip, John's baby, his vision of the boy dead.

"I have a brother or sister somewhere," Rose mentioned as though she could read Arthur's mind. "I doubt I will ever see them, another John Marston special."

A creak of a floorboard didn't stop their flow of conversation, Rose didn't seem to notice, but Arthur could sense it was John. His impeccable timing grated on Arthur is that all John could perceive from his family, the negative interpretations of his actions. Arthur hoped he would dispel his stubbornness and come and join them, make it like old times. The sound of his bedroom door shutting confirmed he wasn't ready yet. Rose could see him deflate at the rejection,

"What are you going to do to make this better," He was grateful for her lack of scowl, her understanding that this was a mountain and not a molehill he was trying to climb.

"I honestly don't know, any guidance at this point will be greatly received." Arthur prompted, Rose, having spent the majority of time with John in the past five years probably had greater insight into the man he now was, Arthur could only reference the boy, and that was hurting them both.

"Well, I once received some excellent advice, it has stuck with me" Rose's lips curled mischievously. "Sometimes John can be an idiot, he worries about things, if you look hard enough you can see the smoke coming out of his ears, it means he is scared, and no one likes to be scared. And sometimes he shouts, but he is generally shouting at himself even if it feels like he is shouting at you,"

Arthur was stunned, Rose was able to remember their conversation, his words had such an impact on her that she could recite them back. He concealed his awe with humour which was his way. "Them some wise words, I can imagine the person who spoke them possessed a brilliant, sharp mind and outstanding judgment."

"No, he is an even bigger idiot" Rose responded, giggling. Arthur swooped in, capturing her limbs as he tickled her sides, punishment for her observation. The light-hearted chuckling brought calm to them both, Arthur couldn't bare John missing out on the reunion.

"Can you do me a favour, princess?" Arthur said, leaning in and kissing Rose on the forehead.

"If I must," Rose said breathlessly from the tickle assault.

"John's scared," Arthur stated, as they both knew it to be the truth, "He doesn't like sleeping on his own when he is scared."

Rose rolled her eyes begrudgingly "If he kicks me in my sleep again, I am coming in here and kicking you."

"I'll make sure to sleep with one eye open." Arthur chortled helping Rose to her feet, she left his room and headed for John's. If John wouldn't share a bed with Arthur, then he could receive the comfort of their daughter.


	52. How to woo a stubborn ass mule

Arthur retreated to his swinging chair, kicked his boots off and relaxed preparing for his favourite moment of the day, sunset. It was a splendour of peace and constant richness, displayed in the colours of calmness, it spoke to his heart, and he would never grow weary of witnessing it.

"Can I join you?" John's gravel voice fluttered in his ears, he bit a smirk, this was progress. Arthur nodded, not wishing the happiness he exhibited to raise John's hackles, this was baby steps. John reclined next to him, the aroma wafting from John was heady and sweet. Arthur ached to bury his face in John's neck and inhale deeply, to lick and taste every inch of him. He crossed his leg, determined to hide his reaction to his lover's closeness. A tentative harmony sat between them, Arthur stilled himself, ready, prepared for the conversation. Arthur never mastered an understanding of where John's mind would take them, just controlled his reactions to it. He was ready for the heartbreak, the misunderstandings, at this point, he would willingly shoulder all the blame.

"If we are dead, we need to decide on new names," John said, his focussed gaze fixed on the horizon, unwilling to look upon him. It wasn't high on Arthur's list of priorities, they regularly used different names in their dealings with civilians, it wasn't the burning issue Arthur wanted to discuss, he shook his head, placating John with a response.

"John and Arthur are pretty common, doubt we need to change them," Arthur huffed, craving a whiskey, a focus for his clenched hands.

"Surnames," John barked. The iridescent colours of dusk luminous against his pout.

"Oh, hadn't really given it much thought, Callaghan?" Arthur said playfully. He revelled in his alter ego Arthur Callaghan, the debonair southern oilman, last seen the Grand Kerrigan or more notably jumping off the vessel, drowning with John's treacherous lover. 

"Genius because no one knows or is searching for Arthur Callaghan, really Arthur" John said drolly, sarcastic and caustic in equal measure. Arthur lamented his dream of progress, this was a practical discussion, no suggestion of a romantic interlude into their new lives together.

"Well, what do you suggest?" Arthur grumbled, throwing his hands up in defeat. "What's Rose's surname?"

"I don't know," John glared, he wasn't told Rose's birth name. "She was Jameson for a while"

"Well we can all be called Jameson then," Arthur conceded, it made sense to share the same name if they were family.

"She changed it," John confirmed. Arthur rolled his eyes, having a tooth pulled at a back-street dentist would be preferable to this conversation.

"Rose Marston," Arthur offered, assuming she would take John's name for convenience.

"Rose Morgan," John said dryly. Arthur's mouth dropped at the revelation; the hurt sat deep in John's expression.

"Rose took my name," Arthur grimaced. Finally recognising the shadow he cast over John's life, it was for protection. He'd all but convinced himself his subtle interventions and monitoring of John had no bearing on how John lived his life. It transpired that his protection came with consequences. A thief in the night, stealing significances that were rightfully John's. Arthur abandoned Rose, barely offered a minute to raise her, she should be a Marston.

"Don't look like that," John swept his glossy black hair back in frustration. "I ain't sour about it, Marston is my father's name, the only thing I share with that useless ass, I don't want Rose to have that burden."

"Morgan is hardly a name I wanted, my father was just as brutal as yours," Arthur challenged. It wasn't a competition, but loyalty to a name didn't come before allegiance to each other. Faced with the conundrum of having to lose their monikers, provided by men they felt nothing for, they confirmed in the same breath who they wanted to be.

"Matthews," they spoke together, for the first time there was a grin on John's face. Arthur and John Matthews. That offering as subtle as it was had Arthur fizzing with expectation and hope. He could woo John Marston, just required a little tact and patience.

Arthur stirred restlessly. The two months living at the farm with John and Rose had ushered in the most tranquil sleep Arthur ever achieved. Even if he was consigned to the small camp bed in a cupboard of a bedroom. Sleeping with one eye open had become so routine that he lost appreciation on how wonderful it was to pass out naturally without the aid of alcohol or fatigue. With improved sleep, his mood altered, he felt lighter, unburdened. His ashen grey pallor turned to a robust blushed bronze from working outdoors, he even got a bit of sun on his white chest, giving him an all-over healthy glow.

John was winning awards for weirdness, his aloof, standoffish attitude to Arthur only broken by occasions of unavoidable proximity. Arthur could handle it, relished seeing John blush and recoil every time he approached. Arthur staunch, maintained firm rules, no chasing or taking the lead in the; _we need to talk _conversation_. _He was more than content witnessing the gears grind in John's head, musing on the irrelevant thoughts that turned him upside down and inside out. The unrest residing in John required time to work out. Arthur committed to being there when John was ready. This new-found carefree attitude was not all of his own devising. John ever the conspicuous, black and white moron, kept leaving Arthur little clues that their lovemaking hiatus wasn't a permanent fixture.

Arthur wasted time on his demanding projects; built Theodore and Joseph their own porch, after enduring unsubtle comments of wishing to experience the beautiful sunsets in private. The pair appeared to occupy themselves in the solitude of their new home. He didn't question why; assumed the two introverted learned men craved order and rest. The hollering and howling of the Matthews nee Morgan-Marston household remained tiresome for such auspicious men. Arthur preferred chaos, the bickering, the scowling, fighting over who's turn it was to clean, cook, feed the animals, was sublime, as a family should be.

Arthur was a novice, having bypassed constructing anything in his life, commenced work on the porch with enthusiasm and little else. Much to John's annoyance he was proficient, a natural labourer, an expert in everything he put his mind to. John didn't involve himself in Arthur's activities, the former outlaw discerned pooling brown eyes scrutinising his every move. Ever the smug, windup-merchant when it came to John, he performed his task shirtless, gifting his man an eyeful of what he was missing, hence the gorgeous glowing tan. In the heat-filled haze of the summer sun, his body would glisten with sweat. He made damn sure to cool himself off with water, rinsing his hot heated skin provocatively with a dripping cloth, lingering on his sensitive hard nipples, his defined abs, slowly covering himself, so he was slick and moist. Arthur wanted John bristling with jealousy over that rag. He would even bite his lip, seductively, flick his wild chestnut-blonde locks from his eyes, produce the odd, wickedly beguiling brooding expression. Arthur would fall apart, laughing at himself, too self-deprecating to commit fully to the lusty vision he was trying to display. He wasn't sure it solicited the desired effect on John, imagined him rock solid and greedy. The two corrupted gentlemen indoors would gasp and swoon at the titillation on show. They became increasingly flustered by his behaviour, at least someone was benefiting. It wasn't all too bad, there was enough to occupy his days and John wasn't wholly reserved in his fervour. Arthur called them his little love notes, the pieces he found from John placed inconspicuously like he wouldn't notice. They were John's way of communicating without speaking, confirming the love was still there, ever-present, just presented in a different way.

Arthur received his first love note from John upon finishing the porch. A brand-new bar of his beloved soap, Ivory, placed on the shelf next to a freshly poured bath. Arthur sunk into those warm suds with exotic aromas and reminisced on the first time he used the soap, bathing John. The guilt he once endured towards that act now replaced by a kind, cherished memory. It drew a satisfied precious smile, delivered from the pleasure that his scheming seduction was working. Seeds and a hoe were next, to start a vegetable garden. Arthur refrained from mentioning his designs for the patch of land, he was eyeing up a plot next to the old house. John must have noticed when he was indiscreetly spying on Arthur working half-naked on the porch. Again, Arthur made sure to reward the kind gesture with a little show, wearing his tightest denim's maximising his assets when he bent over, he added a little wiggle just for John. When Theodore blew a shrill whistle of encouragement, it was hard to fathom who was redder, the man clearly lost all sense of propriety. Arthur registered a bark of gavelled laughter from the farmhouse, John overly amused by their reactions.

John's love notes were not only supplied in the giving, but John also stole from Arthur when it mattered most, and it meant the world to him. Boadicea's infection worsened, the old girl was listless and sombre. Staring into those pained black eyes each morning was leading Arthur to a decision he was reluctant to make. Arthur grumbled and mumbled to himself incessantly, delaying the inevitable as long as he could. Putting Boadicea out of her misery was the only conclusion he could arrive at. Only, when he tried to retrieve his guns, John had hidden them, all of them. Even the ones Arthur secretly placed under the floorboards in case they were surprised in a standoff with the Pinkertons. He considered asking for his guns back but didn't want to descend into another quarrel, so he quietly accepted the gesture, wearing a wry smile of gratitude. It was a temporary stay of execution until Arthur could negotiate the loan of a weapon from one of the farmhands. John had seen to that too, they were told under no circumstances were they to supply him a gun, loyal bastards. The impasse would previously have riled him enough to shout. Arthur raised John, nurtured his compassionate temperament, John wouldn't let Boadicea suffer too long; he just wasn't ready to say goodbye yet. When John paid a vet to advise Arthur on healing his girl back to health. Arthur was overwhelmed with love, his small displays of appreciation from afar no longer adequate. He needed his man, his warmth, his body, that tongue. Arthur keened so hard imagining their reunion, locked in each other's arms as they writhed and groaned together, he couldn't deny himself any longer.

Arthur flew into the kitchen, locked onto his man before a protest could leave his lips. Arthur pushed his mass so hard against John's firm ass, John yelped from the pressure, trapped between his man and the counter. Arthur wasn't in the mood for gentlemanly pursuits, his wild, untamed impulses bottled up for too long. He bit down on John's neck prompting John to buck backwards, the press of those globes on his aching cock sent him into a carnal animalistic spiral that he was loathed to stop. He spun John around, claiming his plump cupid-bow lips in a fierce searing kiss. John unable to participate in such intense ferocity, gripped Arthur's biceps, anchoring himself, as Arthur lifted him onto the kitchen cabinet. There was no time for pleasantries, as his hot mouth consumed John's, Arthur clawed at John's belt buckle, the slack just enough to ride the material down, releasing his taut cheeks. This was going to be tight as hell, but it was what they required, hot, fast and brutal, always sated their disputes. 

"No, Arthur stop…" John whimpered into Arthur's mouth, breaking their kiss, pushing hard against his chest. "I can't…" John cried out but stopped himself from revealing any reason why, he lowered his head, returning to his reticent vigil. Arthur stepped back, studying John's reaction, instantly extinguishing his passion. John's eyes pleading, broken, his expression sullen, defeated. What the hell had he done to earn that look and would John be able to expose the cause without destroying the last threads of their relationship? Arthur struggled to navigate his own emotions, to identify the words that John wanted to hear, he didn't have a clue what the problem was, without that how was he supposed to fix this. Arthur rolled his eyes, "When you're ready, I am here….to talk." He thought to clarify the offer, make it apparent there was no expectations on Arthur's side, not now.

John's downright bewildering tortured response to Arthur's advances had him somersaulting. He couldn't settle not even with the help of whiskey. The doubts, the fear he'd dedicated time to keep at bay were all back with a vengeance. He strenuously tried to convince himself that they didn't require physical intimacy to be happy, but it was evident they did. John drove him wild with passion for years, the only tonic Arthur discovered to that passion was absence. Arthur sat swaying on his preferred seat, venerating the disappearing sunlight, determined tomorrow would bring healing. That night he tossed and turned endlessly, trying to pacify his unquiet soul.

"Rose, what's wrong dear?" Joseph inquired. He didn't bother looking up from his paper, the slam of the door was enough to confirm her presence.

"They are arguing again," Rose huffed. Placing her half-eaten breakfast on the table so she could continue to eat uninterrupted. Rose swept her bedraggled hair backwards, unveiling her impatient and unimpressed scowl.

"What's the problem this time?" Theodore grumbled. Swiping back the net curtain to witness the tense interaction between Arthur and John. 

Arthur was stalking back and forward, wearing a hole in the ground, throwing his hands in the air as John delivered his grievances with the usual pointed finger and accusatory tone.

"Arthur is going away for a week," Rose faltered, despairing of the unending turmoil. She joined Theodore, beholding their vexatious and exasperated forms reeling with intent, their roars deafening, lions fighting for dominance. "He got a letter in the post about something and started packing."

"You can't leave Arthur," John growled.

"Why the hell not, what am I staying for," Arthur bellowed "You ain't touched me in months."

Theodore grimaced, pulling Rose away, "Let's leave them to it darling, adult talk."

John's face dropped sullen, sour, Arthur couldn't bear to view his melancholy expression, it was tearing his insides apart. It was absurd, the free fall of their relationship seemed endless, Arthur still none the wiser on what was causing it. He was going away for John, the letter was the response he'd been waiting for, an old friend brought news on the person they'd been searching for. Arthur was hell-bent on proving to John once and for all how committed he was to their union and family.

"You can't leave me, Arthur," John sobbed, tears running freely down his sharp cheeks. Arthur paced back and forward, the aggression diminishing, he couldn't abide John so desolate, his worries were consuming him, turning him into someone else. John rejected Arthur's touch but demanded his presence by his side. Arthur couldn't be by his side if he wasn't allowed to touch him, caress him, love him. Arthur stepped forward, guiding John down to the porch steps, clenching his fists to refrain from smothering him in unwanted affection. There was a solution, Arthur could be honest with John.

"I never left you, John; I was always here." Arthur placed a hand tentatively on John's knee. His shakes reverberated; he was losing control. Arthur took a deep breath and began to enlighten John on how his physical absence didn't imply he wasn't ever-present in John's life. An omnipotent force that was sent to take care of him. He started at the beginning, always a reliable place to begin. John, leaving the gang, ending up at the church with Sister. Arthur explained how he would write to Sister, learn how John was, send money for his board, even visited a few times when John was at work.

"Rose?" John stuttered, a quizzical expression of confusion on his face.

"I met her once, gave her a yellow Rose," Arthur confirmed, "Don't think she remembers,"

John shook his head in disbelief and recognition, "I couldn't believe how close you were; like I was the stranger. She trusted you because she remembered you."

"How else would I have returned the watch if I wasn't with you?" Arthur added more evidence to his presence. John pulled the Onyx watch from his pocket, graced his thumb across the embossed carving of the stag and the wolf. He was about to say something stupid, he obviously believed Arthur chanced across it on his travels, that sort of serendipity doesn't frequently occur in one lifetime. Arthur claimed it twice, the first time he met John Marston and the night he literally ran into him in St Denis. Confirmation from the universe they were destined to be together. Arthur clarified. "I was there when you sold it."

John froze, he sold that watch to fund his new life, didn't give it a second thought. Arthur, aware of his betrayal; that he valued his potential life with Giorgio over anything he experienced with Arthur, it wasn't right, was never true. Arthur observed the struggle in John, the grief forming. It was not his intention to upset him. His disclosures were designed to alleviate John's insecurities about Arthur leaving because he never left and always came back.

"I used to watch you on your rounds, follow you." Arthur continued, delicately brushing the stray strands of John's limp hair behind his ear. "You looked me dead in the eye once; I froze on the spot, thinking you'd seen me, but you turned away."

"The spectre of Arthur Morgan always loomed close-by," John chuckled breathlessly, clasping his hands together nervously "I missed you so much, reckoned I was going mad."

"I stewed on it for a long time, contemplated stepping out of the shadows." Arthur dipped his head, his chin resting on his chest. "I was frightened you were still angry."

"So that's how you knew about Giorgio, you were there from the start," John murmured. He'd concealed the truth about Giorgio from Arthur, convinced when Arthur found out he would be furious, dejected, heartbroken. Still, nothing was ever a shock to Arthur Morgan because he always knew, the goddamn wind would tell him. 

"I understood Giorgio was going to be a significant part of your life, possibly before you even noticed," Arthur responded. "The guilt I felt when he confessed to killing you. I pushed you into that relationship with the best intentions, and that snake turned out to be as rotten as the rest of them, taking everything we had to offer and leaving us with nothing."

"Then, why do it? Why didn't you just come and get me? We could have been together Arthur," John wept uncontrollably, this time Arthur pulled him to his chest comforting him. There was no flinch or tensing of the muscles, John was supple and compliant under his embrace.

"It stung, but I wanted you to have something else, something more than me. It wasn't healthy how much you idolised me. Even when you met Giorgio, you used to hide in that shack, you would call out his name and then mine." Arthur lived with Giorgio's name repeating from John's lips released in the ecstasy of his orgasm, only to hear the defeated gasp of his name own quickly follow. It proved to Arthur that John couldn't let him go, Arthur had to enforce distance for John to move on.

"Jesus Arthur, can a man not get some privacy?" John jolted backwards from their embrace, embarrassed by the admission, he rubbed the tears from his eyes, tempering his tremors.

"John our tents were next to each other, weren't nothing I hadn't seen, heard or participated in before." Arthur chuckled at his self-conscious response. To be young and carefree again, so in lust that societal conventions of correctness came second to carnal relief. John rolled his eyes, his jaw stiffened, levity wasn't driving the response Arthur hoped for.

"So, after you left us, why did you stop? why did you give up on me, on Rose?" John's tone was bleak, flat, remote, his mind was full of darkness, a feeling he hadn't experienced since Arthur left him.

"Madeline Kershaw," Arthur spoke, studying John's expression as it turned from depressed to downright hostile.

"What?" Arthur protested. "I needed someone to keep watch until I was invited back. Right decision too since you managed....."

"To get shot," John fell backwards against the slats of the porch, his eyes darting as he sought clarification, searching for evidence in his own experience.

"I wasn't in the camp when the letter came in, Hosea and Susan came to visit." Arthur released a pitiful sigh, "You were healing when they arrived, they decided not to disturb you and your new life."

"Hosea mentioned my family, I thought he was talking about Rose." A stony silence sat between them, there wasn't much more Arthur could say, this was for John to come to terms with, in his own time. "That's how you knew about the baby."

Arthur felt his gut wrench, he gently nodded. John had been piecing together the puzzle that was Arthur Morgan his whole life. He dedicated himself to finding the truth of the man, and in his own way, he had. Arthur didn't lie to him anymore, he held Arthur's darkest secrets. When it came to his own interactions with Arthur, John was dense and blind, a fool in love; took what he was given without question. Arthur could manipulate John so easily, been successfully achieving it since he was a boy, perhaps there was no forgiveness for that. John might not have known the full facts, but in the removal of his warmth, he was expressing uncertainty in them, Arthur could see it was his fault.

"It terrifies me how good you are at concealing the truth," John spoke honestly, Arthur tensed, riding the stiffness, although the words hurt, Arthur wanted it, a candid perspective of John's thoughts and feelings. "Is there anything else in my life that isn't of my own doing?"

"No, John," Arthur was stern thick drawl bounced around the property. He could be called a liar, a manipulator could face John not loving him anymore, but he wasn't taking the credit for John's successes, that was all him. "All this is because of you, the best person I know. I might have to step in from time to time, but that is what families do. You did all the hard work. You built a business, you raised a daughter who is a credit to you, you are an upstanding member of a community that loves you. You have achieved everything that I couldn't." 

"I have watched your focus shift so many times, but I always told myself it would come back to me, eventually. Now you are telling me it never went away; it was always there. I always had you." John placed his hands over his eyes, covering his tears. 

"Don't cry, John, it's what people in love supposed to do. I couldn't suffer anyone taking away those I loved again, not without a fight." Arthur cooed into his ear, wrapping his arms around John's shaking frame, placing him snuggly in his lap. He put his hand on John's neck, massaging the strain until stillness overcame him.

"You're leaving me, Arthur," Arthur hardened, his eyes wide with confusion. Arthur threaded his fingers through John's scaggy black locks, pulling his head up to meet his glare. There was nothing so absurd and obscure that John could shock him, but there was a line, and he was getting damn near close to it. John quivered, this is why he remained reticent and remote, he couldn't bear witness to the exasperated glint in Arthur's gaze as he divulged the truth. John had been fussing over it for months, reflected and dismissed it multiple times, the arrival of the letter in the name of Tacitus Kilgore validated his anxieties. 

"Why would you stay with me, I am not better than him" John tried to clarify, pulling out of Arthur's tender embrace and pushing himself away. He was restrained, poised and calm; it's the least he could do for Arthur's sake.

"John," Arthur scolded, in no mood for long rambling reasoning, there was a point, and regardless of the ludicrous place in John's mind it came from, he demanded to hear it.

"I forced you, Arthur," John cried out, "I forced you without your consent, I did what he did to you, I swear if I'd known, I wouldn't have harmed you like that."

Arthur contemplated for a while, he was tranquil, loosened, his body barely stirring. John's insight made sense, well not sense, that would require a rational mind, which John failed to possess. But Arthur was stoic, their imposed hiatus was because John, his beautiful, lithe, idiot, was traumatised. John viewed the most incredible night of Arthur's life, where he was subjected to unimaginable pleasure, driven wild with passion and worshipped in carnal ways that had him feeling like a king, was a repeat of the abuse he'd suffered under Dutch's hand. Arthur barrelled into a deep, belly laugh, his muscles were so tight he struggled to prop himself up, hitting the dust, his eyes strained with tears at the hilarity of it all. Poor John, Arthur did blame himself, John had no time to process the disclosure of the rape, he was so set on saving everyone that it couldn't permeate; until it did. In the peaceful quiet of their splendid new existence, John had taken Arthur's tale of woe and twisted it with their own beautiful lovemaking. His abused boy was so black and white, he missed all the beautiful shades of grey that made their unity perfect. 

"Don't laugh at me, Arthur, I am serious," John disapproved, he was aching, and it was no laughing matter.

"I know you are darling, its why I love you, sensitive and caring, beyond irrational." Arthur coughed a few more laughs.

"I mean it, I shouldn't have done those things to you," John pulled Arthur's wrist, revealing the silver scars that formed along the skin, "I can't forgive myself."

John turned away, Arthur thought on all the points he wanted to speak. Call John an idiot, tell him it was not the same, that the love and care John displayed while tying him to a bed in St Denis was cathartic, compelling and cleansing. Arthur could spend eternity, trying to persuade John that his interpretation was wildly different. That Arthur's opinions on their night of passion were not in the same universe as John's but John didn't have much reason to trust or believe much Arthur had to say. Armed with the problem, he could now fix this, Arthur would show John the difference. 

Arthur closed the space between them, pushed out his chest, solidly pressing against John, trapping him between Arthur and the fence John escaped to. He lowered his lips, resting them tantalisingly close to John's ear, feeling the unintentional shudder of desire tremor through John's muscles. John's mind might not be ready to forgive himself for his perceived crimes, but his body was desperate for affection. 

"I was hoping we could do it again," Arthur said with his deep low baritone drawl, it made John supple, goo, as he softened to Arthur's words "Maybe play with that stash of toys you been hiding all these years." Arthur ran his hand over John's taut globes, gripping his intended target. John went rigid, his stiffness spiking the eroticism.

"What?" Arthur asked cautiously, startled by John's response.

"I left them in the drawer in the old house." John glanced over to his old property set back from the main house, which was now residence to Theodore and Joseph.

"Randy old goats, no wonder they been looking so flustered," Arthur uttered bemused that his new toy set might be challenging to retrieve.

"You thought it was because of that show you were putting on," John said mockingly, trying to display humour although he was exhausted, mentally, physically, his worries had taken their toll. Arthur had confirmed to him time and time again that he could hide the truth, lie and suppress his own feelings. He couldn't talk to Arthur about his guilt, Arthur would put John's needs before his own, reassure him, even if John was right and Arthur felt violated.

"So, you were watching" Arthur smirked, pressing his lips against John's forehead. John chuckled, remembering the ludicrous performances Arthur had performed while working. He appreciated Arthur thought he was being stimulated, deviant and alluring, he looked goofy, especially with Theodore and Joseph preening over him.

"Look who's laughing now," Arthur said, spinning John around on his heels, lifting him on his shoulder and carrying him towards the house.

"Arthur, what you doing?" John said, confused, his body supplicant to Arthur's force.

"Wiping that smirk off your face" Arthur growled, smacking John's ass for good measure, a Cheshire cat grin on his face, he wooed his man now he was going to claim his prize.


	53. Before he leaves...again

Arthur threw his lover on the bed with enough force to have him witnessing stars. Capitalising on John's disorientation Arthur frantically rifled in each drawer, pulling and tossing aside all John's clothes, unable to find the leather-bound cuffs John previously used on him. He doubted the sturdy wrist adornments were high on John's list of items that needed saving from camp. Arthur was grateful for that; his possessions were John's focus, but Arthur would definitely be searching for a new pair. Having previously discovered John's willingness to include objects and items of a taboo nature in his bedroom practices. Arthur was sure John would still have some remnants in the main house, having carelessly sacrificed most of his stash to the care of Theodore and Joseph. Arthur scrambled about for a few minutes until he found an alternative device that could meet his requirements. He chuckled as he unearthed the iron contraptions resting at the bottom of John's shirt draw. He couldn't hide the puzzled expression of bemusement that crossed his face, confused how his partner managed to obtain a set of the adjustable lawman cuffs. Arthur pulled them out, resting the linking chains on his index finger and presented them to John.

"Do we need to talk about these?" Arthur said, cocking his eyebrow in disbelief, a smug grin crossing his face as John gawped at his discovery.

"Not unless you want to know the answer," John responded, conscious Arthur would have asked directly if he really wanted to know the truth. A pink blush flittered across his cheeks as his man pondered. Arthur thought on, he did want to know the tale, could tell it would be a John Marston special, but right now he was consumed by other needs.

Arthur stalked towards John, his hips swaying loosely. His expression was light, cocky, arrogant he was in control. Arthur shucked his jacket off, allowing it to drop to the floor with a thud. He grabbed John's ankles, pulling him down the bed towards him. With the cuffs in one hand, his grasped John's wrists with the other, lowering himself on to John's body, pinning his arms above John's head, his weight crushing in all the right places. Arthur tenderly kissed along John's jaw and neck, the scruff of his beard prickling the sensitive skin. John moaned breathlessly from the attention; his eyes shut firmly as he allowed the intimacy to drive his desire. Arthur pinning him with gentle force, his dominance exuding in his slow tempered movements, it was torturous bliss. Arthur cuffed John's wrists together with one hand while maintaining his ministrations. John didn't protest or fight, he was compliant for his lover, accepting any heady aggression, if it did come, would be when Arthur decided. Right now, they were lost in their tender exchange of kisses their bodies rocking gently in rhythm, their caresses supplicant to their lips, teasing and grazing across their sensitive skin. Arthur couldn't tear himself away, lost in the rolling sensation of John's languid tongue, each groan a satisfyingly rich rumble of love. Inhaling his sweet woody aroma, fresh pine and spice mingled with hints and notes of his own, their scent compatible. He could stay like this forever.

"Arthur, touch me," John gasped as he came up for air. Arthur was reluctant to let go of those full plump cupid-bow lips, as usual, his plans were curtailed by John's sensuality. His man possessed more self-control when it came to foreplay could initiate and curate layers of pleasure in a seamless flow. Arthur struggled on that front, he wasn't bad at it, just enjoyed savouring the experience to the point they could end up spending all day in bed and not removed a layer of clothing. John whined like a brat from Arthur's slowness, "Are you teaching me a lesson" he pouted, making Arthur smile.

"No," Arthur said nonchalantly, biting John's chin for good measure. "Just reminding you who is in charge."

Arthur straddled John's thighs, trapping his hips, preventing him from seeking the friction he craved. He deliberately removed John's belt gradually, heightening his lover's frustration, before throwing it onto the floor with the growing pile of garments. He couldn't bear shifting his weight from his position of power, not yet, he undid John's pants enough to release his throbbing member from its confines. John hissed as Arthur glided his thumb over his blushed cockhead. Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as Arthur's hand gracefully slid up the length of his body. Although not touching him, its movement creating a sensation of relaxation making his skin tingle with expectation of those rough large hands anchoring him through brutal thrusts. Arthur delicately traced his wetted thumb across John's plump cupid bow lips.

"I love your lips," Arthur whispered into John's ear, "so soft" he retraced his route from top to bottom, sending a bolt of electricity through John.

"I love your taste," Arthur plunged, capturing John in a sensual longing kiss as he sucked, swiping his tongue, devouring every bead of moisture he deposited on John's lips. John bowed his back, tensing from the sensual kiss. He whined as Arthur's warm lips parted, leaving him desperate, craving more. "You'll never deny me those lips again" Arthur growled, his lustful blue orbs storming with desire. 

"Never" John gasped a promise, falling into the erotic slowness of Arthurs performance. Arthur tore John shirt in one forceful movement, his buttons popping and rolling like dimes across the wooden floor. The coolness nipped at his rock-hard nipples as searing kisses were planted on his neck; Arthur's teeth grazed his earlobe as his thumb rotated around his erect nipple. The sudden change in tempo had John's heart beating like a drum. The mix of sensual long loving caresses and hard force was driving him wild; his tongue was thick with anticipation, unable to dictate what he wanted, his mind wanted everything and anything all at once. It was too sensual, too much stimulation. His cock aggressively slapped against his stomach, depositing his leaking essence in his black silk trail of hair that arrowed to his manhood.

"Arthur" John cried breathlessly, as his man transitioned, delivering the same attention to his other side. "Arthur, I need..."

"I know what you need Darlin" Arthur responded sultry as his licked and nipped down John's lithe torso, running his tongue along his ill-defined pecks until he found his treasure trail, slicked with his fluid. Arthur lapped up every last drop, feeling John's hardness flick and flip against his chin. Arthur tilted his head up, intense black eyes stared back at him filled with expectation. He smirked at his lover's response, began kissing John's hip bone, delicately planting his lips on every scar and blemish that lay across his milk-white skin.

"I am going to kill you if you don't touch it," John groused, unable to sustain the rapturous torture Arthur was delivering. He squirmed and bucked against Arthur's firm grip trying to provide friction to his sorely neglected member.

"What's the matter Darlin, can give it out alright." Arthur provoked him, with a mocking drawl, before continuing his sensual caresses. "If you want me in your bed your gonna have to learn to take it too,"

John rolled his head, pushing deep into his fabric comforter, groaning in defeat and want. He'd spent hours torturing Arthur with pleasure, left him to suffer alone with his own thoughts for a while. He wouldn't blame Arthur for returning the favour but prayed to God that wasn't in his plan, John was too intoxicated with pleasure to imagine it stopping, it needed to escalate and quickly.

"Tell me what you want, John" Arthur groaned, removing his gun belt and throwing it on the floor. John bit his lip, he wanted to snarl and shout "you" impatiently. They'd played this game before, Arthur chastised him for lacking the imagination to suggest in detail acts of lewd stimulation they could perform on each other. John was still a virgin, lacked the experience to speak his wants, now a man with enough vision on his desires he was too tongue-tied and needy, Arthur would punish him for that.

"Kiss my ass," John responded cockily, his lip curling to the side. Arthur smouldering eyes turned wicked at his provocation. Arthur flipped John brutally onto his back, hooking John's cuffs over the bedpost, his prone body at the mercy of Arthur's lust. He couldn't bear the absence of Arthur's heat, his firm rough touch against his skin, his heated breaths. John groaned needy waiting Arthur to return to him, his body writhing uncontrollably, trying to recreate the stimulation Arthur had already given. The woollen comforter, wooded bedframe was no comparison to Arthur's calloused purposeful touch.

"Arthur…" John whined exacerbated. He received a firm hard slap against his cheeks for his insolence.

"Stop being inpatient princess," Arthur drawled, "I want to savour every second."

"Do it again," John begged, Arthur, paused for a second, contemplating the request and the option for denial.

"Like me disciplining you," Arthur rumbled, grateful John was unable to see the amusement in his face. Their last two liaisons John remained in control, had all the power, managed to conceal from Arthur his bossy, needy demands. Arthur was stoic during those times, gave with reluctance, John was the complete opposite, he was goddamn greedy.

"Yes, God yes, spank me, Arthur, punish me," Arthur almost came undone at the request, a rush of blood had him dizzy. He took a stuttered breath attempting to compose himself, growling faux annoyance that John could bring him to his knees with only his words, the man he loved still had all the power even when he was tied up and compliant. Arthur removed the belt from his pants, doubling it over for extra thickness. He'd almost forgotten the first time he did this, punished John. His skinny frame shaking nervously against his bulk; mimicked responses was all he could get out of him that night. John discovered his voice a little too well, Arthur considered sticking a bandanna in his mouth to shut him up but then he wouldn't hear his sensual wanton moans. He mused on the difference between John at nineteen and the man splayed before him now. _Jesus_, Arthur thought, was this predilection Arthur's gift to John, the first time he was touched by a man. Arthur considered it might have been too extreme as a starting interaction, he smirked, maybe John _had_ learned his trade from Arthur. The dominant commands, the removal of movement, Arthur pinned John to his chest, John being smaller bound Arthur to the bed. Arthur let out a heartfelt laugh, not befitting the moment, but his insecurities were waning.

"Less laughing more discipline," John commanded¸ Arthur chuckled again, he was jealous of John's experience, of Giorgio, he never considered that John's desires were borne from their intimacy.

"What is so funny?" John groaned impatiently.

"Nothing," Arthur responded, this was no time to explain to John all his alleviated concerns. "Think I might have created a monster." Arthur swiped John's plump check with his belt, the snap followed by a titillated moan had his cock throbbing. He wielded the leather belt in fast fluid motions, each crack and slap followed by a cry until John's ass was flushed and hot. Not wishing to injure his lover much Arthur set about cooling the taut globes down with chilling breaths and wetted kisses. He oscillated his movements around his intended target until he built up the courage to dive in. John delivered such enthusiasm in the act it had Arthur's head spinning, he wanted to do the same for his lover but was scared of his inexperience. 

Arthur tentatively navigated the tip of his tongue to John's puckered hole, a quivered sigh left John's lips as Arthur's tongue gently lapped the tightened skin. Arthur encouraged by the sounds, explored techniques, migrating from long powerful licks from John's balls to the tip of his spine, to focussed probing pulses into his hole, introducing a finger when he was sure the time was right. His bossy Darlin turned into an inaudible mess under his touch, his heated breaths gushed from his gasping lips, his body spasming with every thrust. John was a picture of uncontrolled satedness, his face tinged red, desperately holding on to control, his slick black hair sticking tight to his neck and cheeks. He cried Arthur's name as the pace and precision of his penetration elevated him beyond control. Arthur was in no mind to stop, driven by the need to satisfy and exhaust his lover, his boneless body would quieten his restless mind. John groaned at the height of his ecstasy, collapsing on the bed, supple and incoherent.

Arthur placed soothing kisses along his spine, shifting slowly from the bed, taking advantage of his incognizant lovers heady high. He quietly removed his clothes, neatly folding them and placing them on the dresser. He was rock hard, his work incomplete, he revelled in the time to compose himself enough to ensure that round two wasn't over before it began. John whined grouchily when Arthur placed his hands on his oversensitive skin, guiding him to the end of the bed. Arthur could tell John wanted nothing more than to melt into his post-orgasmic glow and surrender himself to sleep, but he had other plans. Arthur captured John's body in a loving embrace, guiding him down to the floor. He placed the cuffs across the lower bedpost, John's arms outstretched, as he sat on Arthur's thighs. John's head titled backwards against Arthur's shoulder, his lithe muscles numb and complaint to Arthur's silent directions.

"This ain't going to be pretty, you sure you're ready?" Arthur mumbled a warning in John's ear, studied a subtle frown of confusion cross John's face quickly followed by a delicious knowing smile.

"Take me, Arthur, never let me go." Arthur nipped his ear, capturing the fleshy skin in his teeth, attempting to temper his urge to explode at his lover's prompting mouth. Arthur slicked his cock lightly, enough to ease entry, not too much so John wouldn't feel his roughness. He wanted John to feel him while he was away, a reminder of his act of devotion every time he moved. He slapped his head against each of John's cheeks, teasing him, John moaned like a whore, his mind all but gone to the sensual lovemaking Arthur bestowed on him.

"Jesus," they said in unison as Arthur breached John, sliding in deep in one motion. He wasn't a complete brute, gave John a few seconds to adjust to his size. The last time had been frantic, forceful, chaos, Arthur slammed into him so hard he thought John would break in two. This time he was going to hold off, bring John to the edge of ecstasy over and over until he was nothing but a slathering cock-hungry mess. Arthur slid in and out of John in long smooth thrusts, feeling the over-tight muscle relax around his hardness. John released stuttered breaths each time his thick shaft grazed against his swollen prostate. John was still inhabiting the tranquil relaxation of his previous orgasm, allowing Arthur to take his time to rhythmically flow in and out, adoring the heat of his lover tight confinement. When his long graceful thrusts had him edging to abandon, Arthur pounded brutally, angling just right to have John screaming and shouting, his cock sparking back into life. Arthur bit down on his shoulder, the pain shooting through John, causing his ass to contract involuntarily. Arthur bucked relentlessly, the slapping of his thick thighs against John's redraw ass had him spiralling to completion. He grabbed John's hair, pushing him forward onto the bed, his palm, glided down to his neck, securing John in place. He thrust so hard and deep into his lover, his movements, quick and powerful the bed moved inches out of place. Arthur was having the ride of his life, John's frenzied hollers were dampened by Arthur's slurred grunts, the heat and pace made their bodies glisten. Arthur felt John go limp, having successfully ripped his second orgasm from him. Arthur yelled as he released into his lover, his ferocity so heightened he couldn't stop thrusting long after his last drop was milked. He collapsed forward from exhaustion enveloping John's stilled and used body with his own. They lay there panting and breathless, stuck together by sweat and semen.

John couldn't recall getting back into bed, he felt the sensation of the warm rag meandering across his tingling skin, cleaning him necessarily but also delivering unwanted excitement. The tender kiss placed on his forehead made his eyes crack open slightly, enough to see a dressed Arthur perched on the bed next to him, his muscles were weak, even his smile was deliriously sated.

"I want you to rest while I am away, the farm is taken care of, and Joseph and Theodore will keep an eye on you," Arthur commanded softly.

"I am fine, Arthur; it only takes a day or two to heal from you ravaging me," John said breathlessly, overcome with pleasure.

"I need you to rest that head of yours, you have been through a lot in a short space of time, haven't had time to process everything properly." Arthur's blue eyes were stern, his brow furrowed with concern. "Taking it from an expert, rest will deliver so much needed clarity."

"Are you mad at me…. for thinking it was the same," John mumbled, aware that their latest performance was prompted by his confession. Having experienced the excitement and ferocity of being bound and punished by Arthur, the man he loves and trusts, he can deduce that it isn't the same.

"No, I am mad at myself for not working out where your idiot brain would take you, but we are equal now," Arthur responded, playfully slapping John's sore ass. John scowled at him pathetically, which ushered a gorgeous smile from him a man.

"And to prove to you I am not embarking on anything dangerous, madam is coming with me." Arthur edged his revised plans into the conversation.

"Was that your idea or hers?" John chuckled, shifting delicately in the bed, his high was descending rapidly, his body crying with wanted aches and perfect pains.

"Apparently you are not the only one who has Arthur Morgan abandonment issues, and she is not as easy to win around like you are," Arthur said mockingly placing a kiss on John's swollen puffy lips. "You know I would never put her in danger, and if you are a good boy and rest, I will bring you back a present."

John's eyes pooled with malevolence at the manipulation, Arthur read it immediately. Before the words could leave his lips, Arthur plunged their mouths together in one final searing longing kiss. There was never going to be any circumstances where John would be allowed or permitted to call Arthur daddy again.


	54. Happily ever after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, thanks too all those who stuck with it.

Arthur held Rose's hand, her sweaty palm mirroring his own palpitations. Arthur was pensive, he scanned their surroundings a little too much. His chest was constricting, his heart beating fast, sweat dripping from his brow. Feeling like a murderer, hunted by the law, which had been the past twenty years of his life, never prompted this reaction. He blamed John, that was easier, his insecurities over Arthur leaving and not coming back working its way into his psyche. Really, Arthur was nervous as hell, even if this went according to plan, he couldn't control anyone's reaction to his actions. He'd searched his heart long and hard before making this decision, he was sure this was the right thing to do. He wanted it more than anything, but his wishes were built from his life, his compass, which was notoriously crooked, directed him here.

"Why are we here, Arthur?" Rose quaked. Unsure why Arthur brought her across the country to stand outside the partially dilapidated church that had been her home. She could barely remember it, just flashes of images and moments. The children that played in the courtyard squealing and hollering invoking vague recollections, a mixture of joy and relief, burdened with pain and fear.

"Do you remember this place?" Arthur asked half-heartedly. Judging from her slippery palm and shuddering voice Rose was having a reaction to the location. It was unintentional, she wasn't meant to be with him, her impatient stomping foot and knowing scowl caused him to relent to her second demand. Her first, _you can't leave_ was a mantra the pair had ringing in his ears. The, _I am going with you_ that followed, after his well-reasoned argument was delivered was harder to deny. He was glad of the company but considered, judging by her response, it was not the best choice.

All doubt of his choice waned when Sister appeared in the doorway. She still held herself with dignity, her habit pressed and cleaned. 

Rose squealed like the small children when she saw her, relinquishing Arthur's hand and running to her. Arthur pondered for a moment, this place of religion and rest bite had played an unequivocal part in all their stories, kept them safe when they couldn't be together. He released a breath of gratitude, if it was not for this shamble of a house that was blessed by God, their lives wouldn't be much as they are now, rapture. Arthur followed Rose, who appeared to be squeezing the life out of the poor sister, she didn't pay any mind to the assault, just hugged and cooed back.

"Rose dear, how you have grown!" Her soft clipped voice delivered a calm reassurance. "And Mr Morgan, your soul is radiant as always."

"Sister, you save that talk for men that deserve it, can't be risking your place in heaven for a man like me." Arthur drawled; his eyes tinged with sadness.

"Ah Mr Morgan, some things will never change. Don't rightly want to enter the kingdom of heaven if there isn't place for men that redeem themselves." This woman always had a kind word and faith in Arthur's redemption. "Now I have someone for both of you to meet."

The dingy, stuffy room of the old rectory hadn't changed, Arthur made a note to send them some more funds, new furniture and anything that could lift this place from its terminal decline. It was too important to allow to rot into nothingness. Sister guided them to the seating area next to the fireplace and disappeared into the back where the children slept. Rose seemed lost in her memories, ghosts flooding her mind as her eyes darted from wall to wall. Arthur braced himself, leaning forward, he was nervous as hell.

"Here he is," Sister summoned their attention. In her arms was a bundle, wrapped in swaddling, a pudgy pink fist raised up, stiff from being awoken. Arthur stood up and instantly sat back down, his body overwhelmed with emotion, a thickness sat in his throat, throbbing, he could feel the tears watering his eyes. It was uncomfortable for him to be so overcome with happiness, especially in full view of others, he could feel the burning sensation of embarrassment cross his cheeks as he relented to his emotions. 

"This is Jack," Sister placed the bundle in his arms and Arthur cawed like a new father meeting his son for the first time.

"Hello, Jack" Arthur cooed. He delicately caressed Jack's alabaster skin, soft and untainted. Jack wrapped his tiny fingers tightly over the rough surface of Arthur's index finger, Arthur took the opportunity to count each digit. Arthur's dreamed image of Jack was proving to be inaccurate, the black tuft of hair was almost white and barely visible, his pinkish-red colouring was milk. Even his temperament, Arthur expected a bawling baby that demanded food; instead, Jack was idle and content. An uncensored yawn left his small thin lips, and then his eyes cracked open for the first time, the black orbs of the doe shone through. 

"Let's hope they stay doe forever; I only need one wolf in my life." Arthur chuckled at his musing and kissed Jack on the head. Rose remained silent, unsure of what was happening. She considered that this baby was going to be a new addition to the family, and as any big sister feels when meeting their brother for the first time her heart was exploding with love and her head couldn't form words to express that emotion.

"Do you want to meet your sister?" Arthur said, pulling Rose near. She shuffled closely into his bulk, wiping her joyous tears into his shirt.

"Hello Jack," Rose said, caressing the clenched fist that was wrapped around Arthur's finger.

"How did you find him?" Arthur spoke to sister, "Your letter didn't say much,"

"I went off the information Miss Kershaw, and yourself were able to provide, the mother returned to her family as expected, and they shunned her. Unfortunately, there were several society types on the Grand Kerrigan the night her husband died who all heard him announce her infidelity. They refused to house the son of a bastard, so she was left on the streets with nowhere to go and by the sounds of it, little money." Arthur listened intently; this was the source of his worries. The women in their lives never faired well. Could John cope with another tragedy against his name?

"I don't know what happened to the mother, where she has gone if she is alive, but she signed this little one over to an orphanage the other side of town, Jack Marston," Sister said the name gushing with pride. John Marston was a whirlwind of a boy, that displayed nothing but love and compassion. She was glad he found Rose, had Arthur and now his son.

"Jack is John's son," Rose pulled back. Arthur raised a hand to request silence for a moment.

"Can you keep looking for her, Clara, even if she doesn't want to see Jack, she deserves to know that he is back with his family, where he belongs, and she will always be welcome." Arthur's voices cracked in his plea. It was the right thing to do, he couldn't ignore it, another child without a mother, regardless of how much they would love and cherish him, was too much for his heart to bear.

"I will try my best, some folks don't want to be found," Arthur nodded, he spent a lifetime trying not to be discovered, he knew how easy it was to hide from those searching. Arthur turned to Rose, her ocean blue eyes still filled with tears.

"Do you think he will be angry with me?" Arthur said solemnly. This was Arthur's redemption, a second chance to protect his son. John made no intimation that he was thinking or considering where his child might be. 

Arthur was scared this could usher in another feud that neither of them could overcome. Arthur gifting him the child he let go of and may not wish to have returned. It wasn't Jack or John's reaction to Jack that was the real worry, John would love him in a heartbeat, his nature made him a natural father. Arthur interfered again, without seeking or obtaining permission, he decided this was the right thing to do and once again failed to include John in that decision. This was definitely going to be the last time Arthur did anything without his partner by his side, without equal share on the decision making.

"How could he be angry, Jack's his son, Arthur," The sister responded warmly.

"He might die of shock," Rose added, laughing.

They remained a few days in St Denis, purchasing all the necessary requirements for a new born baby. Arthur had them sent for delivery by train and would be waiting for them on their arrival back at Big Valley. Rose was too excited, planning all the ways to reveal little Jack to his father. Some were a bit too wild and could actually result in John's heart giving way. Arthur was sure there was only one way he wanted to do it, with commitment, John sure that Arthur was going to be by his side until his dying day.

The train travelled through the night; Rose slept soundly in the carriage as Arthur tried his best nursing Jack without disturbing the other passengers. As the sun crested over the horizon, he managed to get an hour of sleep before the train pulled into the station. Arthur had forgotten how demanding a new born could be, he answered his question will John be angry, no, until he is sleep deprived then he will be grumpy as hell. 

Arthur smiled at the thought, a groggy, wolfish John, shouting and snarling from lack of sleep was worth every second for their perfect completed family. 

At the station a cart was waiting to get them home, loaded full of the furniture they'd bought in St Denis. Arthur made a little space in the back for Rose to sit with Jack in his basket. It was part of his plan to keep them hidden while he talked to John, and his outlaw ways didn't want nefarious characters to see he was with two children. As they rode slowly up to the farmhouse, John was waiting. His lithe body, resting and relaxed against the pillar of the porch, his morning cup of coffee in his hand and his cattleman tipped low across his eyes. John's crocked smile mocking as he studied Arthur, his exhausted expression calling for his bed. John's eyes widened with concern when he realised Rose was not with him, by his side safe as he promised.

"She is in the back you idiot, wanted to rest," Arthur drawled reading his mind.

"It's nice to see you too." John tipped the remains of his coffee on the ground and placed his cup to the side. "I should have warned you about shopping with Rose, she will fleece you." John pointed to the full wagon of items assuming they were mostly madams.

"Yeah you should have, going to need a second mortgage to pay for all this," Arthur chuckled jumping down from the wagon pulling John forward into a passionate kiss that knocked his hat off.

"Hey!" Rose shouted with indignation, unaware of the impassioned reunion taking place.

"Did you miss me?" Arthur inquired, pulling back studying John.

"You look like hell Arthur, what have you been up to?" John asked quizzically. Arthur had lost his healthy glow; the heavy-set bags had returned to his eyes. John, no clearer on why Arthur had to leave, was suspicious of the man who returned. His heart was singing with joy to have them both back, his insecurities proven to be irrational as ever. Yet a lifetime of watching Arthur Morgan wouldn't let his suspicions rest "You are up to something Mr Morgan."

"That I am Mr Marston," Arthur's throat constricted, dry with fear. He dropped to his knee presented a small box with a pale blue bow around it. Rose jumped up for this part, not wanting to miss the less than conventional proposal, she was careful not to stir the sleeping Jack. "John Marston, would you agree to become Mr Matthews with me,"

"Arthur" John opened the box, finding a silver band engraved with a wolf. "There ain't no law or God going to recognise this union."

"When has what the law thinks ever come into our consideration, there is only one person's opinion that matters to me," Arthur rose from the dirt, presenting his own ring that was already placed around his finger, engraved with a stag. Both rings together matching John's onyx watch that Arthur gave him at sixteen. "She decided it was a good idea" Arthur nodded towards Rose, John slapped his bicep chuckling, Goddamn Arthur Morgan/Matthews always got to be funny in the most inappropriate moments. 

Arthur removed John's ring from the box and placed it on his finger. John's expression was a picture, all gooey and soft, almost crying at the gesture. Arthur kissed him lovingly, those lips would be his always, his placed tender pecks below both his eyes, capturing the salty taste of his tears. Resting their foreheads together, overwhelmed at the moment, he gave them time to breathe, bonded together forever. John was an overjoyed sniffling mess, his doe eyes were bright and happy. It was where Arthur needed him to be for this next part. 

"I have something else for you," He said hesitatingly guiding John to the back of the wagon. He pulled down the rocking chair, placing it on the ground and then the crib, John looked on confused to these items. 

When Rose came forward, holding a basket, John almost fell over. Arthur lifted the stirring and groggy Jack from his basket and handed him to John. John stared at the newborn as though he was a creature from another world, confused as hell. Jack, unhappy at being awake, adopted a similar expression of his father, balling his fist tightly around John's hair and pulled it.

"We should have discussed this," John said, trying to gently negotiate his hair from the baby's fist. "We can't just be adopting kids, Arthur."

Arthur helped Rose from the wagon before responding to John. "Well, the way I see it, you didn't discuss it with me when you conceived him, so I am allowed a little latitude." Rose and Arthur made their way into the house. They had discussed a multitude of options on how to introduce John to his son. Both eventually came to the conclusion that leaving baby Jack in the hands of his father and hiding was for the best. John had to process, his mind would bounce violently, and both were too tired to engage with irrational John. Leaving him by himself to become acquainted with his son without interruption was the best way.

Arthur waited for John in their bedroom. Having set up the cot and the room fit for their little prince, all attended bath time, John was insistent that they all retire to bed while John fed him a bottle of milk. Arthur already had several naps in the day, fitting his snoozes around Jack’s, John having never been a father before wasn’t yet aware that was necessary, he was too excited to sleep. He wasn’t ready for sleep so he waited, poised staring out of the window at the silver moonlight, time had ticked by for both of them and if there was ever a moment where he wished it to stop it was this one.

“Why are you not asleep,” John said pulling Arthur from his thoughts,

“Didn’t want to go without you,” Arthur said smoothly, “Besides I am not tired.”

“Behave, we have a new born now, can’t be tying me to the bed and spanking me.” Arthur feigned a sad puppy dog sound at the seeming denial.

“Come here John,” Arthur said placing his hand out, John huffed and joined him. “I just want to stand here with you in my arms under the moonlight.” Arthur drew John in, pulling his back tight to his chest, wrapping his muscular arms around John’s body, his warm breath tickling against John’s neck. In the peace Arthur began to hum, relaxed in the serenity of their new life, together how they should always be.

“What is that you are humming, you were singing to Jack earlier” John asked.

“Just some old song I know, I think my mother used to sing it to me,” Arthur responded, unaware he was humming.

“I like when you sing to yourself, means you’re happy.” John said placing his head on Arthur’s.

“I have a lot to be happy about,” Arthur said, swaying them gently and began to sing to John:

“I'm going to where the sun burns  
And the heat stays in command  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay right here  
  
To where the river turns to dust  
And god is never rushed  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay here  
  
John, I need you and the world  
  
Ah the buzzing, the stink and the smell  
Yeah, it’s choking me  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay right here  
  
You'll be dressed in a cloud  
I'll be singing out my tune real loud  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay right here  
  
John, I love you and the world  
  
Yes, it seemed to make sense  
When Brother Santo said  
One more run be enough  
Going to be enough, be enough  
  


Money for everything  
Silver toed boots and gasoline  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay right here  
  
John, I worry about you and the world  
  
When I see you behind the glass  
I forget that I’m the cage  
They bring me to Sunday mass  
But it never wiped the rage  
  
John, I love you and the world  
  
Seven months gone and seven years to go  
Red, I can't stand no more  
Come and lay by my side  
Come and lay here  
  
John, I need you and the world  
John, I love you and the world


	55. 1903

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bonus extra to see how they are doing.

John crept silently down the stairs, avoiding the creaking floorboard along the hall. It was a special day in the Matthews household, and he planned every second in advance, celebrating Arthur's 40th year was going to be unique, especially as neither of them could believe that he survived to see it. Arthur had all the fixings of a tragic death five years prior, was set to meet the noose or die in a gun battle, his chance and luck were running out, but John made sure to save him when it really mattered. They were settled in a routine, John worked the farm, Rose nearing eighteen still attending school, mostly to help the younger children, was preparing to join a finishing college for ladies up north. Jack started school in the fall and was proving to be as disruptive and rambunctious as his sister. Arthur found his place, renovating. The stuffy farmhouse with its closed-off rooms and darkened hallways had lost multiple walls, the light shone through with the addition of larger windows, placed to follow the sun. The centrepiece of the living space was a massive stone fire which they were glad of in the cold winter months. Everything was perfection, they even managed not to argue so much, somehow finding their peace with each other.

"Goddamnit," John cried out, stubbing his toe on a hobbyhorse Jack left lying carelessly about. He kicked the toy again, sending it clattering across the wooden floor, so much for being quiet. He entered the large extended kitchen, another Arthur home improvement, a large double stove placed centrally across a set of oak cabinets, the centre of the room filled by an Island of oak that served as a preparation table and dining table. The home was practical, with manly touches but served their family perfectly.

"What are you doing up?" John grumbled annoyed to find Rose already awake, her nose deep in a book. She barely flashed a glance to him, shaking her head in disdain, noticing that her annoying father has hardly dressed appropriately, no pants and one of Arthur's blue work-shirts fastened, enough to cover his modesty.

"Couldn't sleep" She sighed a response to his question. John placed a pan of water on the stove, a further pot for coffee. Arthur plumbed water from a nearby spring which allowed them the luxury of clean, freshwater from the tap. It amused John greatly how easily these comforts became the norm, no stored rainwater for them. It entertained Arthur, even more, pointing out these luxuries were around when they were boys, they were just too rugged and raw to appreciate them.

"What's on your mind?" John perched on the cabinets, folding his arms around his chest, making sure not to hitch his shirt up. He would have got appropriately dressed if he considered there was a risk anyone else would be awake. His plan was to sneak down and make Arthur breakfast in bed, undisturbed and undressed. Every day for the last five years, he woke early, got his chores done and then commenced battle with their children to get them out of bed and ready for school. Arthur was no help, he took to lying in late into the morning, complaining that his ageing years demanded he not wake with the lark. His youthful smirk always found a way of appearing when John would scream exacerbated at the lack of movement from the children or their incessant grumpy moans from being awake. Rose placed her book down and looked bewildered at her father, she had grown into a stunning young woman. Her golden spun hair was long, always neatly tied and platted, it framed her face, which lost its youthful chubbiness and gave way to sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. Rose's eyes were pooled blue oceans, surrounded by thick black eyelashes, whatever mood she was in her eyes would have their captor drowning.

"Can I ask you something?" Rose broke her gaze away. John frowned, his brow wrinkling displaying his own ageing years.

"When have you ever not been able to ask me something?" John responded in his deep gravelled voice. Rose rolled her eyes to the response; John was still sarcastic even when he was trying to be considerate.

"Why did you never ask about why I left the Jameson's?" It wasn't a question he was expecting, drawing from a past he hadn't thought about in a long time. Seven years ago, John and Arthur rescued Rose from the streets of St Denis after she ran away from the care of her adoptive parents the Jameson's, apart from a brief stint in the custody of the Pinkertons Rose had been by his side ever since. The pair had been good to their word, never inquired to whether she was found or in his care. He considered asking why multiple times, too afraid of the answer. He learnt from Arthur's brief parenting class that it was easier to wait, that Rose will tell him when she was ready, that time never came.

"I wanted you to tell me when you were ready." John beamed a smile, sounding like Arthur, he waiting for the scowl and caterwauling he bestowed on Arthur when he delivered a response. Arthur always waited for John to tell him, his persuasion, Beth, Giorgio, Clara, Jack, Arthur waited. However, he had the benefit of already knowing, Arthur was John's nefarious stalker, who followed him unseen throughout his whole life. John was entirely in the dark about why Rose left the Jameson household.

"That's such an Arthur response," Rose said.

"I know, but if I had to hear it my whole life, so do you," John dipped his head smirking.

"I heard them talking one day about me, about my health and that I couldn't have children." John's eyes shot up to meet Rose's, he never broached the subject, never saw the value. Plenty of women failed to bare children, blamed themselves, a punishment from God. John never wished that shame to hang over her head, she was an exceptional, intelligent young woman, she could be anything she wanted to be, why worry about something that could be such minor insignificance in the grand scheme of things. "They said it would be difficult to find me a husband if suitors became aware."

John didn't speak, conscious that his unruly thoughts would only add fire to such a tender subject. He knew the answer, they don't matter, who are they to decide, and their stuck-up opinions mean nothing. He was unclear on the problem, why at the tender age of seventeen with Rose's future before her, this arrived in her head? Preventing her from sleeping.

"I remember getting angry at them, not because I couldn't have children or a husband but that my only value was to be a wife and a mother, and I was already failing." Rose went on, John kept his solemn expression but inside he was beaming with pride at his brave, wise daughter. "I thought I would be better off carving my own life, my own story, without such constraints."

John finally interjected, "You thought all that at the age of ten."

"Ok, so maybe I can elaborate eloquently now I am older, I probably thought I will show them, or didn't think at all considering the trouble I got myself in." They both chuckled lightly, "I knew you would come and find me, eventually, you were just too important not to be in my life."

"That was a risk, I could have died on the way, you would never have known." John pointed out the foolhardiness of believing in fate and eternity. That was his and Arthur's biggest failing when they were young, always having faith that some outside force would reunite them, bond them. It was only when they understood that life wasn't like that, that at any moment they could lose each other in the most innocuous way, they stopped fooling around and committed to one another. John ran his thumb across his ring, the silver band gifted by his husband.

"Why is this bothering you now?" John prompted her to continue. Rose hesitated, bit her lip and narrowed her eyes.

"You, I am leaving home soon, spreading my wing, I wanted you to know that nothing bad happened, that it wasn't awful or unsavoury, it was just a difference of opinion." Rose offered in the way of justification. "Did you know I couldn't have children?"

"Yes," John responded.

"You never thought to say anything?" Rose thumbed her book, her tone melancholic, John could sense she was grieving the loss of her childhood more than her ability to have children. It was a wide-open world out there, both exciting and terrifying in equal measure. John eventually provided the security a child should have, sheltered her from evil and soon he wouldn't be there by her side.

"Didn't think it was important," John offered in the way of a reason. Rose flashed her blue eyes at him, she didn't think it was that important either but to hear it from John made her slightly perturbed, his casualness towards such a life-affirming event upset her. John cackled at her response; her pouty scowl was still part of her arsenal of expression. "Darling, I don't know if you noticed, but you were raised by two outlaws, two mean outlaws, that are proficient with guns, and good killing people."

"So?" Rose asked perplexed.

"No man will ever get near you to say good morning, let alone come to us to ask your hand in marriage, therefore regardless of whether you can physically have children or not, it doesn't matter. No man is touching our little girl, ever." John kissed her forehead, dodging the swipe of her hand. He cackled down the hallway, out into the front yard where he collected that mornings lay of fresh eggs.

"Yay papa," Jack called on his return, he was riding on Arthur's shoulders, pretending his papa was a horse.

"Seriously, you lot are unbelievable, the one morning I want you to stay in bed, and you're up and dressed", John grumbled, his bare feet slapping along the wooden floor of the kitchen. He prepared the coffee, placing three cups on the island.

"What have I told you about making plans, this family rides on the seat of its pants." Arthur chuckled, taking another round of the living room as Jack squawked his encouragement.

"Nice to see you made an effort to put some pants on, it being my special day an all."John groaned, his plans were shot, he placed the eggs next to the pan, ready for cooking. Arthur put Jack down next to his sister, kissing her on the forehead, reading her forlorn expression. Something was obviously discussed before their arrival; it wasn't clear who the principal offender was, but it obviously had his princess rattled. Arthur slapped John on his ass, pulling him into a bear hug, whispering in his ear, "I like it when you wear my shirts."

"Stop, they are watching," They both turned to see two sets of eyes, firmly set on them. One innocent and adoring, the other suspicious and disgusted. "Fine, I shall go and put my pants on, then I will finish making breakfast, no opening presents until I get back."

"There is only one present I want", Arthur said confidently.

"The company of your loving family," Rose said expectantly.

"Naw," Arthur said pulling a confused frown, he had that every day, it was a given, this was his 40th year, he wanted something a darn sight more interesting than their ugly mugs to look at. "A dog."

"Yay, a dog," Jack screamed.

"No dogs" John shouted, ascending the stairs.

"Every year you ask for a dog, you never get one." Rose pointed out through her giggles; it was the same request ever year.

"Yeah, he is a stubborn mule when he wants to be," Arthur said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his sleep from his muscles. Arthur smiled, John's reticence to getting a dog was borne from fear, his multiple interactions with wolves of the year left him unsure of anything with the potential to snarl, bark or show teeth. Arthur was sure any dog of his would-be both loyal, calm, and a little dopey, just like his master. It was the mere act of overcoming his other master's stubbornness to the idea. Arthur pondered for a moment, studying Rose and contemplating the schism between her and John. Rose was reading again, but the pages were not turning in their usual ferocity, she was hiding.

"What were you and John discussing?" Arthur said, peeling some fruit and handing it to Jack. The prerequisite to any pressing family discussion requires the boy's mouth to be filled with food. The only time his foghorn timbre could be silenced.

"Not being able to have children." Arthur stiffened; his eyes flashed with confirmation piecing together enough to understand why, after all this time, that conversation was relevant.

"What did he say?" Arthur probed.

"It doesn't matter that I can't, you two wouldn't let any man near me anyhow." Rose diluted the threat from John, Arthur chuckled at the response, one he would have given in the same situation.

"That's quite a conundrum you have their darling," Arthur said, feeding Jack another piece of fruit. "I don't suppose they ever taught you the difference between an assumption and a fact in school."

"What do you mean?" Rose snapped her book shut, glaring at Arthur, his riddles were always trapping the intended to his revelations.

"You treated your inability to have children as fact, which is why you were less concerned with rolling in the hay with that boy you're sweet on." Arthur held his stare. "Now you got to somehow negotiate with a father who is quite clear he will kill any man that comes near you."

"Nothing ever gets passed you, does it?" Rose let a tear fall from her eye, her secret exposed didn't provide the relief she was searching for. "Why couldn't he be more like you?" Rose muffled into his shirt as he wrapped his arms around her.

"You don't want that, truly darling, John's hot-headed, will react badly and your beau might die. I, however, play the long game, if he ever steps wrong, I can wait forever to kill him, and I will." Arthur held her tightly against his chest, letting the information sink it. Which would be preferable a quick duel that could result in death, or knowing for the rest of his life he would be looking over his shoulder scared the spectre of Arthur Matthews was coming for him.

They ate breakfast, Arthur maintained a jovial tempo, keeping the focus away from Rose. Distracting John with his demands for a dog, which Jack repeated over and over. He was determined to get his pup this year, seeing as next years present would be a grandchild. The thought made him shudder; he was far too young to be a grandfather, but then he wasn't as young as poor John. After breakfast, he was given his present from the children, it brought a tear to his eye.

"I hope you don't mind; I found all the photos we saved from camp, thought it was about time they came out of hiding," Rose said quietly. In the large frame, she had placed all his photos, Hosea, Susan, Isaac, his mother, everyone that had ever been important to him. Next to them were their family photos, John, Rose and Jack, the ultimate combination of all his years. Arthur got up and placed it on the mantlepiece of the stone fire, where it belonged.

"There is still space left," John said nonchalantly.

"Families grow," Rose added inconspicuously. Arthur pulled John close hugging him tightly, trying to reassure the oblivious idiot that they would get through this, they had been through far worse. John all but pushed the pair out the door to get them to school, it was still early, but he was determined to get this special day back on track. "Here is your present from me."

Arthur grabbed the gift, pulling at the wrapping with an excited smile on his face. He separated the box, inside was a leather collar with studs, and a matching chained leash, his eyes were full of childish wonder and expectation. "Are we getting a dog?"

John bit down his smirk and shook his head to indicate no. He took the collar from the box, placing it around Arthur's neck. His eyes turned from childish to lust-filled as his brain caught up with John's plans. "I don't need a dog Arthur," John winked proactively at him, "Whose, your master?" He whispered into Arthur's ear, sensing the ripples of heat pulsing in both of their bodies.

"Are we getting a dog?" Jack squawked, clapping his hands excitedly. Rose covered his eyes, shielding him from the sight of her two perverted fathers', she scowled at them both. John and Arthur separated instantly, unable to look at their children, guilt and shame written across their faces.

"Jack forgot his workbook" Rose said rigidly. John picked up the book and passed it to her, shaking his head at the interruption. "Can you go one day without corrupting us!" Rose barked at John, who glared back and then laughed. She took that at as their cue to leave, slamming the door behind them.

Arthur took the opportunity to reclaim his dominance, this was his birthday, after all, John was going to be in charge. "Wait I wanted to ask you something," John bellowed, as Arthur swung his lithe frame over his shoulder and began ascending the stairs to their bedroom. "Arthur," John continued, "I want our family to grow, I want another baby." Arthur chuckled, that was going to be a simple wish to grant, idiot that John was always found a way to predict what was coming next, even if he had no clue about it. Inbuilt intuition on a terrifying scale.

"I will let you have a baby if I can have a dog?" Arthur bartered. "Deal," John said, suspecting that was a little too easy, Arthur was up to something.


End file.
